


On Soft Feet

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anthea (Sherlock) is the Best PA, Bedsharing, Bisexual Greg, Destiny, Fate, Fluffy Ending, Friends to Lovers, Gay Mycroft, Greg rides to Mycroft's rescue, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Misunderstandings, Non-Chronological, Past Infidelity, Series Four still happened, We still hate Mummy Holmes, Wishing on stars, but it's pretty mild by Savvy-standard y'all, fix-it (ish), fortune telling machines, gratuitous softness, mostly canon, not one of the OTP, post-Sherrinford scene, so technically here be sex y'all, some lovemaking, unhappy relationships, wherein the writer indulges in a gratuitous and highly satisfying epilogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:20:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24921448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: When he was young and brash, Zoltar promised Greg he'd meet his true love when he least expected it. Although Greg dismissed the fortune, he couldn't dismiss the card it came on...or fate itself. Rick was his youth, an almost-perfect mate. Delilah was a dangerous, exciting future.Only the future didn't last.Mycroft had once been passionate, headstrong and heartwhole. He carried on an affair for years with the older American, Yardley St. James, whom he met during the Oxford Boat Races. But when their relationship ended, he set love and sentiment aside.Luckily for both men, fate has other plans in store for them.
Relationships: Greg & Mycroft, Greg/Greg's ex-wife, Greg/Mycroft, Greg/OMC, Mycroft/OMC, Mystrade - Relationship, background Anthea/OMC, pre-Mystrade - Relationship
Comments: 46
Kudos: 109
Collections: Mystrade Is Magic





	On Soft Feet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hoomhum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoomhum/gifts), [Lady_Cleo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Cleo/gifts).



> I COULD NOT have done this without an idea mentioned by the divine Petra, the readings and suggestions of Dianxxxyy, LauraAmbler, siriusblue, JohannaDraperCarlson, who all helped shape this story. I don't think I incorporated all of your suggestions, but so much of what you all told me helped make this a stronger, more interesting story.  
> Most special and warmest of thanks to my dear, darling Hoomsie. You were integral to making this story what it is. Your enthusiasm, squeeing, gentle pointers, and eagerness kept me going even when I stumbled over writer's blocks the size of my head, or whined about my arthritis. Bless you, honey. You are Mission Assist <3  
> Naturally I must also thank my sweetest Paia, Head Mission Assist, who is not only a wonderful Plot Bunny Adoption Specialist, but who created this fine collection. She also is Very Good at keeping my nose to the grindstone of the actual story I'm meant to be writing. She doesn't let me wander off down other primrose paths until the current story I am working on is done. Bless <3  
> All mistakes are my own.

**_"Love consists of this: two solitudes that meet, protect and greet each other."_** —  [ Rainer Maria Rilke ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rainer_Maria_Rilke)

  
  


Mycroft was probably used to much swankier places than the little Italian joint Greg had settled on.  _ Undoubtedly _ he was. Thinking about it (alright, worrying about it), Greg had finally decided that rather than try and impress Mycroft, he would aim for pleasing his stomach and showing him a good time. Maybe a man as sophisticated as Mycroft Holmes wouldn’t think much of Nonna’s. Could be that he really enjoyed five star dining and rubbing elbows with politicians, lords and film stars. Or, maybe he’d appreciate a chance to relax in a cozy bistro and eat simple but incredibly delicious Italian food.

It appeared he would. They met outside the doors just before eight, on a Thursday. Greg was looking forward to an excellent meal with amazing company. A frisson of nerves had been lighting up his insides all day, in anticipation, and he bounced lightly on his heels as he waited. He’d gotten here a little early, popped in to ask that a table for two be readied and a bottle of their best red set out to breathe, and then, unable to settle, had gone back outside to smoke and wait. Felt kind of like he did before a date--keyed up, hopeful, and a little reckless.

His lips had quirked, amused at what Mycroft would think if he could read Greg’s mind. If Mycroft ever dated, it wouldn’t be someone like Greg. He knew his own appeal, his own charms and strengths, though maybe they were fading with age, but Mycroft Holmes was leagues ahead of him. Greg didn’t need to waste time dreaming of starting anything with Mycroft. The idea of a bloke like him and a posh gent like Mycroft as a couple was laughable. They didn’t have anything in common, were worlds apart...hmm, but it was a _nice_ dream. He’d long enjoyed time spent with Mycroft--no, strike that. For perhaps the last six years or so Greg had really come to look forward to getting to see the elder Holmes. Before they had joined forces to try and keep Sherlock out of trouble following his most serious drug relapse (pre-John) theirs had been a cautious, straightforward, business-like arrangement. 

But the Mycroft of the most recent years, particularly those when Greg was divorced and had more time to linger over a glass of whiskey while updating Mycroft on Sherlock’s behaviour, was someone he very much liked to be around. Once he’d relaxed his public persona, Mycroft Holmes was good company, with a quiet sense of humour and a little smile which would come unbidden to his lips when Greg dared to give him a gentle tease.

_ That  _ man Greg could see dating.

Lost in daydreams, Greg nearly leapt out of his best shoes when Mycroft slid silently up behind him and discreetly cleared his throat. Flushing, he turned quickly, clearing his throat, “Mycroft, hi.”

Smiling a little, the other man tipped his chin, “Good evening, Lestrade. Did I startle you?”

“A little,” Greg admitted, biting down on a grin. “Work week’s over and my brain must’ve checked out!”

“A common occurrence after a difficult week,” Mycroft agreed. He opened the door, “Shall we?”

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


The painted blue eyes of Zoltar were bright, piercing, almost unsettling. Greg, slightly tipsy, stared challengingly back at the fortune teller. At twenty-six, a former Marine, and on the eve of joining the Metropolitan Police, Greg wasn’t afraid of much. Certainly not the future.

“Alright,” he said cockily, plunking the token in the machine and pushing the button, “Tell me the future, O Mighty Zoltar!”

His mates, Frank and Pavan, snorted. The three of them had been wandering the carnival for a few hours, drinking beer and blowing off steam. Greg and Frank had just wrapped up three months of police training, and they were having a celebratory night out. Pav was the designated driver and had accompanied them good-naturedly as they played games, took a turn on the rides, and tried their skills out at the shooting gallery, liberally interspersed with pints for Frank and Greg, and soda for Pav. 

Pav grumbled that it wasn’t fair to pit him against two former-Marines-about-to-be-cops in a contest involving target shooting. Greg, with his sharpshooter skills undiminished by the two years that had passed since his military service, had bagged three large stuffed animals. Handing them out to passing kids, he’d taken a ridiculous amount of delight in his skills. It was a fun, silly night, and he was glad to spread some of his enjoyment to passing families.

They’d come across the fortune telling machine not long after they left the shooting gallery and Frank had decided they needed to find out what their futures had in store.

“I know what the future has in store,” Greg had objected, “I’m about to kick arse in the Met.”

“There’s more to life than work,” Pav pointed out, “You might fall in love.” He was mushily romantic, utterly devoted to his childhood sweetheart. They were four years married, with two small children, and he was anxious for his friends to find the same happiness, which was equal parts sweet and annoying. Greg didn’t have anything against love, or even marriage and a family, but he wasn’t ready to settle down. Although sometimes when Pav’s little ones swarmed him, Greg went weak with an overwhelming swell of affection, and a longing for someone to adore him like that.

Someday. Not yet. He wasn’t yet thirty, and there were a lot more beds to tumble into and pretty eyes or muscular arms to fall in lust with. Greg hadn’t ever lacked for company, but no one had yet truly touched his heart.

Voltar lit up, and an automated voice announced, “Your fortune has arrived through the mists.” Laughin, Pav shoved Frank when he trilled, “Ooooh!”

Smirking, Greg took the slick card as it emerged from the machine, and held it aloft.  _ “You are fated to find true love when you least expect it.,”  _ he read in a dramatic tone, hand over his heart. He rolled his eyes so hard he nearly sprained his ocular muscles, “Oh for fuck’s sake, what kind of weak sauce is that?”

“Maybe your true love’s at the pub,” Frank suggested hopefully, “Let’s get out of here, eh, lads? I’m ready for a serious drink.”

“Yeah, alright,” Greg said agreeably, turning away from the now silent fortune telling machine. Absentmindedly he tucked the fortune in his pocket, since there were no bins near, and promptly forgot about it. It wasn’t until he was home late that night that Greg, emptying his pockets, found the card. Tossing it on his bedside table, he fell gratefully into bed.

In the morning he woke with a slight headache and a raging thirst, and stumbled to the loo, and then the tap, to drown his sticky mouth gratefully in water. It wasn’t until several hours later, when he was preparing to leave his flatshare, that Greg, seeking his wallet, spied the card. Sweeping it into the drawer, he forgot about it once more.

* * *

  
  
  


Hours spent alone, confined in Eurus’ cell had left Mycroft stiff with cold and fatigue. After a cursory check to make sure she’d not pulled some trick, and that the doors were actually locked, he’d not wasted any time attempting to escape. With no way out, and no means of contacting the world, Mycroft had fallen into a study so black it seemed to suck all light and sound from the room. 

His every failing was highlighted in front of him, as if by spotlight--painful and harsh to the eyes. Although Mycroft was clear-sighted enough to recognize that he was wallowing, it didn’t stop him from agonizing over all his miscalculations. The lies, the manipulations. The times he’d weighed his sister’s well-being against political gain for the good of the Crown and used her. As strained as his relationship with his family might be, he didn’t dare to think of how the news of Eurus being alive was going to devastate them. 

From the time he had first learned how very much of a disappointment he was to Mummy, Mycroft had been unhappily aware that in every subsequent child, she had found less and less of the affection she sought. None of the spontaneous warmth and cuddling she so desired seemed destined to be hers. Instead, with each child she brought forth, it was as if she’d made a shoddy copy from Mycroft--cold, distant, lacking.

Sucking in a breath he refused to categorize as either damp or quavering, Mycroft wrapped his arms around his middle for warmth, closed his eyes against the harsh sizzle of the lights, and focused his thoughts on Sherlock. If Sherlock could somehow be brought through this alright. If by some miracle he could survive, Mycroft would never ask for anything for himself again.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Being invited to a restaurant so unassuming and downright homey was a novelty for Mycroft. When he dined out it was invariably in the interests of political gain. Much show of wealth and power went into such meals. Never was it about having a pleasant, relaxing meal someplace where you weren’t very much aware of being on display.

Lestrade wasn’t courting him, but if he had been, this was an excellent opening gambit. Mycroft’s two weaknesses--aside from family--were excellent food and comfortable surroundings. Mycroft, following Lestrade’s back in its nice navy jacket to their table, inhaled discreetly the smell of pasta, herbs, slow-simmered sauces and fresh baked bread. Aware that it was hours since lunch, he swallowed against a tide of saliva and reflected with pleasure that Lestrade wasn’t looking to impress him, but rather to ensure he enjoyed himself.

They were here to share a meal spent in excellent company, and even if the smells were misleading, Mycroft was already assured of the quality of his companion.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


One of Mycroft’s earliest memories of life as an only child was hearing Mummy bemoaning his ‘unnatural lack of affection’ to his Auntie Edith. Stroking her heavily pregnant belly, she’d confessed that she hoped the new baby would be ‘different.’ Mycroft hadn’t known anything was wrong with him until that day. Hearing the words in that wistful tone of voice made him feel slightly sick to his tummy, even though he wasn’t sure why.

His dislike of smothering hugs and perfumed kisses was a problem. Mycroft thought he could figure out the solution, if he just gave it some thought--he was quite smart, everyone said so. He climbed the stairs to his room, sat in the window seat and considered the problem. It made Mummy sad when Mycroft squirmed away from her hugs. Mycroft loved Mummy and he wanted to make her happy, but he didn’t like the feeling of being held tightly, as if she was trying to contain him. Mycroft wanted to wriggle away every time. He much preferred the way Daddy would pat his shoulder and ask in his soft voice, “Alright, son?” 

Mummy liked to cuddle. Mummy hoped the new baby would let her cuddle it. Maybe she would love the new baby more than Mycroft if that were the case. Anxiety curled in the pit of his stomach, bringing with it the return of that sick feeling, and Mycroft curled a protective hand over his jumper, freckled forehead wrinkling in worry. Mind made up, he went downstairs and crawled up into her lap, surprising a delighted, “Why Myckie!” out of Mummy. Submitting to her cooing and cuddles, Mycroft thought, far too wearily for a six year old, that love meant lying and being uncomfortable.

His experiences with crushes, nascent relationships, and sex, in the coming decades, didn’t disprove his early theorizing. Mycroft decided, on balance, that he didn’t much need romance or sex, and it was altogether wiser of him to shelve that side of things and focus on the intellectual. After all, his intellect was his most valuable trait. He would never disappoint anyone with his mind, the way he had with his affections.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


The card bearing his fortune seemed to follow Greg around in the coming years, cropping up in books he was reading, appearing in moving boxes as he moved in and out of a girlfriend’s flat or into a boyfriend’s place. More than once Greg thought he’d thrown it out, only to find it once more. As he moved up the ranks in the force, and from relationship to relationship, he wondered when his true love was going to find him. So far all he’d found was a few good facsimiles and more than a few horrible imposters.

The best, most lasting relationship he had in those transient years was with Rick, a tall, dashing, slightly effeminate sales manager. He’d sold Greg a suit for his sister Haley’s wedding, and slipped his card into Greg’s pocket, murmuring that his personal number was on the back, if Greg ever needed a ‘custom fitting.’ Greg took a casual date as his plus-one, but before the week was out, he’d called Rick. Before the month was over they were exclusive. 

“You’ve ruined me for other men,” Rick had declared dramatically, smiling his enigmatic smile, ruffling Greg’s hair fondly. Draping himself over Greg’s back, he’d placed tender kisses below his ear, slipping a hand into the open neck of Greg’s shirt. “Mm, come away from those files and shag me senseless, hm?”

The sex with Rick had been sensational, but even better were the quiet domestic moments, the lazy weekends in bed. They’d been building a life, a good one, one that made Greg think maybe his ‘true love’ had finally come along. 

But in the end it wasn’t meant to last--or maybe Greg hadn’t tried hard enough, he still wasn’t sure--and they’d parted. It was painful and bittersweet, and left a hollow space Greg suspected he’d never succeed in filling entirely. The problem was their views on how ‘out’ they were. Rick, who had left home at seventeen and raised himself to his current position of comfort and respectability, didn’t see any point in hiding who, or what, he was. He hated that Greg didn’t want to be as vocal about his own sexuality, to tell people at work that he had a live-in boyfriend, that when he went on holiday, the person holding the camera in the solo snaps of Greg was a man.

Greg wasn’t ashamed. But he was a realist. His chances of promotion in the Met would shrink to nil if it were known. The amount of shit he’d have to take would be monumental. Maybe it was cowardly of him, but he didn’t want to take on that fight. Not then, not at that point of his life.

In the end it proved too great a hurdle for them to overcome.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Mycroft went away to university at sixteen and was confronted with just how very despised he was. His superior intellect and prodigious mind annoyed his contemporaries as much as they had earlier schoolmates. No one thrilled to the clash of minds, grew inflamed with excitement over debate. Mycroft was closest to his professors, but they were only available to him during classes, or for a few brief moments during their office hours. He filled the lonely hours with books, study, letters home to Sherlock, and solitary rambles through the parks.

Reflecting on his classmates during these walks, Mycroft came to the decision that his gran was right, he was an ‘old soul.’ “You’ll find your people one day, darling,” she’d soothed, piling his plate with tea cakes, her blue eyes--so like his--warm with love, “You’re just too advanced for them. You prefer the company of older people because we understand you.”

When he met Yardley St. James, an American visiting Oxford for the boat races, Mycroft was struck by the confident charm and rugged appeal of the older man. Yardley was a thirty-year old Wall Street investor, a native of Charleston, South Carolina, from an ‘old money’ family; he filled any room he entered with his booming American voice, his warm leather-and-cologne smell, and his diamond-bright personality. Mycroft liked his agile mind, his ability to discuss philosophy and international trading with equal ease while downing pints, his thick, almost fat, physique, and the way he laid a confident hand on nineteen-year old Mycroft’s knee under the table at the Red Lion.

“I’ve got a very nice hotel room,” he’d drawled, giving Mycroft a half-smile. “I’d like to show you it.” 

Mycroft went back with him that night--and the three following nights. He was completely smitten, consumed with his first real reciprocated crush, swamped by a thrilling international love affair. Yardley was a gentleman, well-bred and charming, but an animal in bed, and Mycroft was so completely enthralled that for once he wasn’t overwhelmed by someone else’s desire for physical closeness. If anything, he craved more of Yardley. Too much, in the end. Mycroft’s desire was never quenched, not over the three magnificent, exciting, and ultimately painful, years they spent together.

He flew over to Charleston more than once to visit his lover, and Yardley returned to Oxford quite often. Never often enough for Mycroft, who had begun to experience a deep, persistent yearning, almost a craving, for his lover. Mycroft would have happily carried on their association, deepened it...he’d even considered applying for a position with the Diplomatic Corps and requesting being assigned to NYC or D.C., where he could have been closer to Yardley. But the American had started to pull away, put Mycroft off when he asked about another visit. He’d hedged when it came to conversations about the future, and attempted to distract Mycroft with sex and extravagant gifts when he began musing on his post-university plans.

Lovestruck as Mycroft was, it was evident to him that Yardley wasn’t seeing the future in quite the same terms. Ultimately he confronted his fear by confronting the issue head-on--and his worries, which had swirled in quiet eddies in the back of his mind, were stirred up and rose to the surface, muddying the serene waters of his love.

“I’m sorry, Myc,” Yardley was sincere, his tone soft. He reached out, as if to brush his thick fingers down Mycroft’s jaw in the loving way he always had. “You’re amazing, and being with you has been wonderful. But this was never...this was never long term. I have a life in New York, a career--plans. I told you I wasn’t out and don’t plan on ever being out.”

“I thought…” Mycroft swallowed the sharp burr in his throat, pain radiating from his heart. “I thought it was my age. The reason we weren’t a public couple.”

Yardley’s eyes broke Mycroft’s heart further, they reflected Mycroft’s own pain back at him, doubling it, increasing the anguish. “Oh sweetheart, I’m not ashamed of you being younger. You’re amazing, twice the man of men older than you. But the circles I move in are cutthroat, and being visibly gay...that’s nothing but a detriment. Myc, I’m sorry. Christ, I thought you knew I was--oh fuck, sweetheart, I never meant to hurt you--”

Mycroft, with pain yawning inside him, reached for the tattered remains of his dignity and pulled them close, seeking the only comfort he had. “You’re--it’s fine. I’m  _ fine,” _ he insisted, eyes flaring with anger, daring Yardley to contradict him. “Clearly we both miscommunicated. I thought we were biding our time until I was older. You thought we were both aware that this relationship had an expiry date.”

Yardley exhaled shakily, dropping his head. “Fuck. Myc. I never meant to hurt you, beautiful.” His tone was thick with misery, and Mycroft felt a softening of the defensive anger with which he’d been trying to shore up his pain. Despite his hurt and anger, he still loved Yardley, the emotions hadn’t ended just because their relationship was over. Heart aching, he sank down on the edge of the sofa next to him, and when Yardley lifted his big arm, Mycroft melted against him, letting the older man pull him close. Wrapped up in one another, it was some time before they could bring themselves to part, busy mourning the ending of the affair.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


When he met Delilah, a few years after his great romance with Rick had ended, following an extremely unsatisfactory sex and dating life in the interim, it at first seemed like Greg had found his happiness. Greg thought maybe he’d found someone who could challenge Rick for the tender space he’d reserved in his heart. Delilah, while being fashionable, arch and sharp-witted like Rick, was his opposite in all other ways. Where Rick was languid and good-natured, Delilah delighted in challenging Greg to better himself, to strive for more promotions and accolades at work. She insisted they take dance and comportment classes, convinced Greg was destined for DCI, or even higher. It was a little exhausting, but exciting too. Left to his own devices Greg probably wouldn’t have dared dream as wildly. He’d have settled for a more humble happiness.

Their relationship took over his life like a wildfire; dangerous, thrilling and ultimately destructive. On their second date she’d instigated a very heavy petting session in the corridor leading back to the loos, and if Greg hadn’t stopped her, they would have taken one another like animals right there. A small part of him wanted it, and the next time it happened, he didn’t say no. Delilah made him feel in a way he hadn’t since Rick. Those feelings were sometimes outrageous, but they kept away the dead sensation which had threatened to creep in.

Greg worried that maybe Delilah wasn’t good for him, even before Haley hesitantly voiced her doubts about his relationship. “I can’t see it. Not long-term, Greg,” she’d almost whispered, tucking her arm through his as they walked along the river, watching her kids chase leaves ahead of them. “I just...are you  _ happy?” _

He was happy. Happy enough. Hearts-in-your-eyes love and glowing happiness didn’t last. All relationships had challenges, hardships. So what if he and Delilah fought like cats and dogs over the daftest things? They agreed on the big stuff, mostly. Granted, he didn’t like--really didn’t like--it when she flirted and giggled at other men, but it was harmless. She was a beautiful woman and she loved attention. Greg couldn’t give her everything she needed and it was churlish of him to refuse her a little harmless smiling. She explained that tearfully and he admitted that maybe he’d been a bit of a dick to get so upset.

Frank at first thought Greg had landed in clover. “A sexy bird like that,” he’d whistled, watching Delilah sashay away at their first meeting. All male eyes in the pub were on her, not just Greg’s, so he told himself to quench the hot burn of resentment he felt at Frank’s appreciative look. He didn’t own Delilah, nor would he want to. Frank was just admiring a good looking woman--that she was Greg’s girlfriend didn’t mean he was suddenly blind to that--nor did it mean Frank was a danger. They went back to their early days in basic training, Greg knew he could trust Frank, knew that under his brash manner, he was a stand up bloke. 

What he couldn’t admit to himself for years was that it was Delilah he didn’t trust.

  
  
  
  
  


* * *

With the bitter tang of ozone and burnt coffee on his tongue, Greg jogged up to where an exhausted John slumped against the boot of a panda car. Sherlock, standing guard at his side, eyes haunted, looked at Greg for a minute as if he genuinely didn’t recognize him. It was the most broken Greg had ever seen him--including seeing his bleeding body on the ground outside Bart’s. An almost visible crack seemed to run through the younger man, as if he’d been split open by a bird of prey seeking the wet heat of his insides.

John, for all he’d been through--and from what Greg had heard, it had been harrowing--seemed more phlegmatic, capable hands wrapped around a steaming paper cup. Tucked inside emergency blankets, the two men looked like superheroes at the end of an exhausting, prolonged battle. Shaking off his fancy, Greg automatically reached for his cigarettes, lit two and handed one to Sherlock. John didn’t object, just took a sip of his tea and closed his eyes, slumping a little further into his emergency blanket with a crinkle. The lines on his face ran deeper than ever, fault lines of pain, washed deep by the water he’d almost drowned in.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock asked hoarsely. Greg hoped he hadn’t swallowed any of the water in the well while he was down there trying to keep John afloat until the rescue team could cut him loose. The two would be escorted to hospital shortly so they could be thoroughly checked out.

“Fine,” Greg said hastily, blowing out smoke with a wince. He was guiltily aware that he was supposed to be quitting. But if any time called for a goddamned smoke, this was it. “She--er,” he stumbled, still blown away that the Holmes brothers had a mysterious, homicidal sister, “she locked him in her cell, left him there alone. He’s alright.” Alright, he thought with a return of the quaking pain which had been gripping him since he was informed of what had happened, was a gross understatement. If it weren’t for his official duties, Greg would have dropped everything to make it onto the Island, make sure his friend was safe.

The words were lame, and didn’t encapsulate how he felt at hearing that Mycroft had survived intact. “He’s alright,” he repeated, more firmly, as if to convince himself.

It didn’t work, nor did it seem to affect Sherlock either. Stunning Greg and John both, he humbly asked Greg to go to him. “He’s not as strong as he thinks.”

Greg, grateful to be released to do just as he’d been yearning for two hours, didn’t have to be told twice.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Pavan and his wife Daisy didn’t like Delilah. They were very nice about it, but Greg had known them both for years and years. He kind of got it, really. They were a sweet, domestic, devoted couple, who spent most of their time with their growing family. Delilah grew impatient with too much ‘home time’ and liked to go out dancing, shout with her friends in pubs, try new restaurants. Not avoid the sticky-fingered kids of her boyfriend’s best mate. Greg who at thirty-four was starting to think maybe he’d like a few ‘rug rats’ of his own, took to visiting the Singhs alone.

Delilah didn’t seem at all eager to settle down, although she loved showing Greg off. It wasn’t until her twenty-seventh birthday, and being tapped to be a bridesmaid yet again that she started hinting heavily at marriage. Their engagement party was huge and raucous, but Greg was happy. It just took some people more time than others to be ready for marriage and a family. In a few years, he’d be rolling around on the rugs with kids of his own.

Delilah didn’t seem all that fond of children still. But look at how her stance on ‘being tied down’ had changed. True love, Greg decided, trying to run interference between his mum and Delilah, was bloody exhausting. He’d be glad when all the wedding hoopla had died down.

It never did, really. Their engagement was nearly two years long, since Delilah insisted a ‘proper’ wedding took time to plan. If Greg thought sometimes that she was just stalling, he never voiced it. If he believed that the oversized ring on her finger meant she should’ve stopped flirting with all and sundry, he kept the uncharitable thought to himself. Better to avoid a fight. Brides, he was fast learning, were primed for emotional outbursts.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Mycroft was convinced he’d never again feel love like that which he’d experienced with Yardley. It wasn’t a conscious decision to give up on romantic entanglements, rather a gradual shift. For a number of years after he graduated from Oxford with honours and moved into government work, he was still grieving the death of their romance; finding someone new was the farthest thing from his mind. When enough time had passed, he looked around, even dated, but found everyone he met felt very flat compared to the larger-than-life presence of Yardley. Why would he reach for a cardboard cut-out of a man when he’d had the real thing?

Men his own age were so callow that it gave him heartburn, and older men seemed to view Mycroft as a sort of sordid prize, or a bit of a precious doll. No one that he tried to connect with seemed to either be interested in forging anything other than a sexual relationship, and Mycroft quickly found that he didn’t operate that way. The few people he liked enough to move into intimacy with left him with a hollow sense that he’d given something away, rather than gained a kind of joining. It hurt, to think that he’d diminished himself for someone he didn’t love, and could honestly never love. Ultimately it was easier, both for his professional life, and on his heart, to stop trying.

There were very few occasions when Mycroft had cause to regret removing himself from emotional connections. As he grew older they became increasingly rare. 

Until the day he met the luminous Greg Lestrade. The man was a newly minted DI, and had come to Mycroft’s attention when he began visiting Sherlock at the appallingly squalid Montague Street flat he insisted on inhabiting. Mycroft had him thoroughly vetted, of course, and then he arranged for a formal meeting. From everything he’d read, Lestrade was above-board, upstanding and law-abiding. A genuinely decent man. 

Mycroft still intended on meeting him face-to-face, however. He’d seen surveillance photos, and while Lestrade came across as middlingly attractive, he didn’t seem particularly striking to Mycroft. Indeed he appeared slightly weary and careworn, always clad in a creased trench coat, usually with a half-smoked cigarette in his hand. Nothing to tempt a second look. It wasn’t until they came face to face that Mycroft reacted to an indefinable  _ something _ in Lestrade’s character, his voice, the way he met Mycroft’s eyes squarely, smiling a half-smile that seemed at once both boyish and terribly worldly. There was an uncompromising solidity to him that cried out to lay your burdens on his shoulders, while his eyes hid a vulnerability that hinted at a man who very much needed a strong pair of arms to hold him.  _ Pure fancy, _ Mycroft scolded himself, trying to shake off his thoughts.

When their hands met in a firm shake, a faint tingle moved through Mycroft, surprising a swift inhale, almost a gasp. He lectured himself to ignore the warmth and focus on the matter at hand.

Circumstances often required him to meet with people of all stripes in his pursuit to keep Sherlock safe. He’d found that his methodology netted better results when it was tailored to the individual (which was why, down the road, he went for mystery and menace with John Watson). For Greg Lestrade, Mycroft sent his assistant with a polite request for the man to call upon him at his earliest convenience. A car was provided, Lestrade was whisked with every courtesy through the draconian elegance of The Diogenes, and when he was shown into Mycroft’s private rooms, Mycroft had risen to his feet, smiling affably, utterly unprepared for the impact Lestrade was to have on him. 

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he said, perhaps a little sternly, still off-footed from the strange sensation, gesturing at a chair, “Thank you for taking time out of your busy work day to meet with me…”

From that moment onward, Mycroft had behaved with impeccable manners and a slight reserve, happy to have found another steward for his brother’s welfare, and unhappily aware that there was something compelling about Greg Lestrade which called to him on a cellular level. Why did he have to discover, so late in life, that Yardley had not been the only man on earth who could appeal to his heart, that perhaps there was someone in the universe with whom he might be fated to find love, even this late in life? 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


Despite the signs, in spite of his doubts, Greg went forward with the wedding. Regardless of Pav’s quiet words at the end of Greg’s homely bachelor party, when they stood outside alone, Greg had buried his misgivings and married Delilah. To his bitter regret, and that of his mum and Haley, Greg stayed for far too long. Having made his bed, he found it nearly impossible to admit it didn’t suit. But eventually he couldn’t ignore her ‘harmless’ flirtations any longer, he found it impossible to turn a blind eye to the clues she grew more more careless at hiding. In the end he was left with a dark cavern inside him, something more crippling and bitter than the hollow left behind at the ending of his relationship with Rick. At least with Rick there had been real love, abiding affection, true regret.

When he sat alone in his sterile hotel room, drinking overpriced minibar booze and mourning his life choices of the past twelve years, Greg had looked at the meagre pile of his belongings he’d dragged with him, the rest stored in Haley’s spare room closet, and reflected on the slightly dog-eared card he’d stumbled across while packing. He’d fallen to the edge of the bed, legs heavy, heart even heavier, and held it between numb fingers, biting his lip until the pain overtook that in his chest. Was this what fate had wanted? For him to find love and excitement in his thirties, hold onto it despite his doubts and unhappiness, and then to be left adrift in his late forties? What was he supposed to do now? How did you make a meaningful life when your ‘true love’ turned out to only be temporary?

The answer turned out to be work. Whatever else he had lost, Greg still had a good job, one he cared about. With increasing fervency, he threw himself into each case, working harder and staying longer than he had in years. One of his fruitless attempts to patch things up between him and Delilah had been coming home as promptly as cases allowed, insisting on his weekends off, planning little getaways to give her the excitement she craved.

Greg worked as if possessed, feverish and dogged. His caseload grew lighter than it had in years, as he ploughed through files late into the evening, bringing them home--or to his hotel room, rather--on the weekends. He called on Sherlock and John less than he ever had, his lack of personal and home life lending him a clarity and focus that meant Greg needed the maddening genius less than ever--a fact which outraged Sherlock. As if miffed at not being needed, Sherlock was more acid than usual with his deductions about Greg’s personal life, since his professional life was suddenly untouchable. They nearly came to blows when Sherlock made a too-on-the-nose comment about Greg’s separation at a crime scene, as Greg was having him escorted out. It was only as Greg turned to him in a sudden blinding rage that John Watson stepped in, clamped a commanding hand around Sherlock’s arm and dragged him off, shooting Greg a concerned look.

Greg reaped the professional benefits of his single-minded focus on his career, but his chest felt achingly empty, as if he'd echo like a drum, should you thump him. All things considered, Greg would have traded some of his successes for a little human warmth and kindness. There were times in the dark of night that he stared unseeing at the dim ceiling and considered asking Delilah if she wanted to give it another go. He’d been a bit of a tomcat in his youth, surely he could adjust to an open marriage? It was madness, though, and he knew it. That lifestyle might be fine for some people, but at this stage in his life, Greg wanted something less adventurous, and it would never last, even if he could convince himself to try.

Even though he knew he could have spoken up to any of the people in his life, Greg found himself unable to ask for the connection he needed so desperately. Part of it was pride, and part of it was shame. Some detective he was, ignoring the evidence in front of him for all that time. Jesus, how many of them had been laughing up their sleeves at him for his willful ignorance?

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


In between work he fended off well-meaning friends’ and coworkers’ offers of a drink at the pub, or a blind date, and did an increasingly dispiriting and desperate search for a flat. The results were depressing, but Greg was tired of shelling out for hotel rooms, and he wanted someplace that felt like his, someplace to call home. He needed someplace safe to escape to, hide from the world.

None of the places Greg had viewed came even close to being worth the asking price, but it had been years since he’d shopped for a flat. The market was desperate, and the flats even more so. Haley went with him a few times, barely able to hide her dismay at the shoddy, cramped spaces, the ridiculous rent. Finally Greg started going without her. He couldn’t bear to see her poorly concealed pity, didn’t want to have to remind her yet again that her house was too far out for him to move in and still get to work, and what’s more he wasn’t going to put her and Kevin out. He was nearly ready to pull the trigger on the least objectionable flat when he got a call--a pretty damned startling call. In the nearly nine years they’d known one another, this was the first time Mycroft Holmes had called Greg for a personal reason.

Mycroft had called upon Greg in the past, usually to help wrangle Sherlock; occasionally to assist in some matter Mycroft couldn’t, or wouldn’t, assign to the agents at his disposal. Their connection had been primarily professional, although on a few late nights they’d shared a sneaky fag and a cuppa at crime scenes, or a drink after a particularly trying episode with the younger Holmes. Greg wouldn’t call him a friend; he was something between an acquaintance and a colleague, despite Greg’s efforts at friendliness. There was always a reserve to the other man, unless he was too tired to assume his usual facade of implacable civility. There was never anything ‘chummy’ about him, for all his friendliness. 

Much as Greg might have liked to be, they weren’t friends, merely friendly. In his youth he would have done something about it. But his job had taught him caution, and his marriage had dampened some of his former assured manner and bright confidence. There were moments that hinted at what a friendship between them might be like, and Greg thought that maybe patience would be his safest course. 

Mycroft was calling that night because he knew of a flat near the Met, within Greg’s price range, and, most importantly, not poky, sad and grotty. Grateful and touched, Greg arranged to see it the very night Mycroft called, and he signed the papers within an hour of viewing the flat. He wasn’t entirely certain but that Mycroft had a sneaky hand in the disparity between the rent and the quality of the flat, but after a brief moral struggle, Greg decided he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. It was past time the universe rewarded him with something good.

Taking a bit of a breather from his rapid work pace, Greg started leaving work at a reasonable time, happy to hurry home and settle in. He’d never been particularly house-proud, or domestic, but Greg was taking a great deal of pleasure in creating a new life for himself. One of the ‘new’ things was making time for himself, and for friends--something he’d lost sight of during his marriage. The guilt he felt over just how disconnected he’d allowed himself to get from his family and his closest friends was a sharp reminder of all that Delilah had taken from him. All that he’d  _ allowed _ her to take.

With a nervous flutter in his stomach, Greg decided he wanted one of those people, one of those friends, that he made time for to be the man who had been responsible for his present circumstances. There was an excellent chance Mycroft would be civil, and secretly amused, and decline Greg’s offer. But hope, and instinct, guided Greg, and he persisted in the face of his own nerves and Mycroft’s impenetrable manners. A little of his youthful exuberance and confidence returning, Greg decided patience was for traffic snarls and chess. If he wanted Mycroft to be his friend, he’d have to make himself clear.

The first three times he extended a dinner invitation to Mycroft, Greg was smoothly and politely turned down. Mycroft insisted no reciprocity nor gratitude was due him, merely that he'd served as a conduit to a bit of news he'd happened across. Greg knew the pocket listing hadn't been mere happenstance. Somehow Mycroft Holmes had gone to untold lengths to see Greg presented with the perfect place to live. The least he could do was buy the man dinner! Even if said man was being pig-headed about it.

Greg was nothing if not persistent, however, and he had no intentions of giving up on taking Mycroft Holmes to dinner. One way or another, he’d get his way. He just had to be patient. Well hell, looked like patience was playing a hand after all.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


Lestrade was an ordinary human, an excellent, if sometimes blinkered, detective, an absurdly (unwarrantedly) loyal husband, and an astonishingly patient and forbearing man. While he was passingly handsome, it was more than his looks or physique which appealed to Mycroft. That he could never quite determine what that quality was, both frustrated and fascinated Mycroft. Lestrade was good-humoured and charming, true, and his brilliant dark eyes and easy smile made even the usually-unconcerned-with-surface-trivialities Mycroft aware of an answering warmth in his chest when the power of both was turned on him. Despite how polite he could be, and indeed was, Lestrade never acted with deference, or seemed cowed by even Mycroft’s most chilly demeanour. Nor was he cheeky or obstreperous. Instead, he seemed to regard Mycroft with respect and a touch of friendliness, and their interactions always left Mycroft grateful for the warm respite in his otherwise aseptic life.

Like Anthea, Lestrade seemed to not only see the man beneath the suits, but to appreciate that man.

It took years for him to understand--and admit to himself--that Mycroft held onto some small kernel of hope that in another universe Lestrade might be the very man who could unlock the padlock Mycroft kept firmly in place. In his more fanciful moments, Mycroft allowed himself to daydream of Lestrade’s marriage ending, of their acquaintance deepening into an intimate friendship...of that friendship slowly working its way into a romantic entanglement. Madness and folly, of course. But even Mycroft Holmes had been known to spend a few moments on folly.

The day came when the wandering Mrs Lestrade finally took her cuckolding a step too far and lost the love and loyalty of one of the finest men it had been Mycroft’s good fortune to know. Mycroft ached to smooth the way for him, but he understood pride and self-reliance, both of which Lestrade possessed in abundance. Sitting back quietly when he could have done something was surprisingly painful. When it came to his attention that Lestrade was about to finalize the lease on a rather appalling flat, Mycroft snorted in outrage. Not for Lestrade this-this bachelor’s hellhole!

Really it was the work of a few minutes and several phone calls for him to secure a much more suitable abode for the hard-working DI. Mycroft made the decidedly personal call with baited breath, and melted into his chair when, rather than becoming offended at his high-handedness, Lestrade had seemed touched and pleased. If only his brother would so welcome his attempts to make life easier for him.

In placing his calls--and calling in a minor favour--Mycroft truly had been acting with good intentions, with  _ selfless _ intentions. Never had he dreamed that Lestrade would seek to thank him with the offer of dinner. The desire to say yes had been so strong that Mycroft had automatically turned Lestrade down. There may as well have been signs posted  _ Heartache Ahead. _

Lestrade, however, was dogged, and eventually it would have been entirely too churlish to continue refusing him. Mycroft, his foolish heart speeding up, had agreed.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“Got us a table already,” Greg said a trifle breathless, shedding his coat and hanging it on the coat rack. He reached to help Mycroft, surprising a pleased little smile from him. “Hope you like red wine...I ordered a bottle of Costasera Amarone.”

Mycroft’s startled blink wasn’t feigned, “Lestrade,” he objected, “There’s no need to spend that kind of money on me, truly.”

“I can afford it,” Greg said gruffly, leading the way to their table. Nonna’s was pleasantly full, a few empty tables dotted here and there, creating pockets of privacy. He’d asked for a table near the back, a bit away from other diners, and partially screened by a large potted plant. Greg’s cheeks went hot when he saw that the waiter had lit a low candle. “And you’re worth it.”

Mycroft sat, murmuring his thanks as the attentive waiter sprang over to pour their wine and deliver a basket with a selection of fresh breads and a plate of olive oil and herbs. After reciting the specials, he gave them some time with the menu and departed, leaving the two alone. Mycroft sipped his wine with enjoyment, the lines around his eyes easing. Glancing up at Greg, he smiled, more broadly this time. “This is lovely. Thank you, Lestrade.”

“I’ve asked you before to call me Greg,” he reminded him, teasing a little. It was almost a joke at this point. He’d been needling the other man over it for years now. His heart softened like a candle to the flame when he earned that particular smile Mycroft granted him when he teased him.

“Hmm,” Mycroft said noncommittally, perusing the menu as if abstracted. Greg caught the tiny grin though, and it fanned the warm ember which had nestled behind his ribs years ago and which flared to life whenever he spent time with Mycroft. He’d seen enough to know that despite his facade, Mycroft was capable of deeply felt emotions--his abiding love for his brother was proof of that--he just chose not to display them openly. 

“I rather like calling you Lestrade,” Mycroft mused, flicking his gaze up at Greg over his menu, “You smile a, ah...particular smile whenever I do.”

“I...might like it,” Greg admitted, wondering if his smile now was the same one. Judging by the gleam of Mycroft’s eyes, he rather thought it was. “Dunno why.” He broke off a piece of crusty, flour dusted bread, dipping it in the oil. “Suppose  _ you _ know why that is.”

“Contrary to what my brother’s predilections might lead one to believe,” Mycroft said mildly, “I don’t spend my time scrutinising all and sundry, weaseling out all their secrets and idiosyncrasies. I do like to leave some relationships to a natural course.”

“Is our natural course leading toward friendship?” Greg asked baldly. For all Mycroft’s fancy footwork when it came to diplomacy and subterfuge, he was a man who seemed to appreciate Greg’s straightforward manner.

Mycroft hesitated a little, rolling words in his mouth, humming a little--an unconscious affectation of his that Greg had grown exceedingly fond of-- “Not to turn a question into a question, but is that what we’re doing?”

“I’d like it to be. Kinda wanted to be your friend for years, but I didn’t wanna-- _ presume _ sounds hoity-toity, but that’s what it felt like.”   
  


Mycroft was visibly anxious, forehead pleated. Greg liked that about him, that he was comfortable enough with Greg to drop his inscrutable mask. It had taken them years to get here, but it was a good place to be. “I hope you don’t find me unbearably snobbish.”

“Not at all! You just seemed so reserved sometimes, I was taking my cue from you.” Greg saw the waiter returning and sat back, signing silently to Mycroft that they were about to be interrupted. Mycroft fell quiet, lining his menu up with the edge of the table and straightening his silverware with the same automatic gestures Greg had grown used to from the times they’d had tea, or shared a meal at The Diogenes. Maybe there were people who would take the piss at Mycroft’s fussy little mannerisms, but Greg found them charming, and he’d grown fond of the minute shifts Mycroft made. Bringing order to the world.

  
  
  
  


* * *

Anthea had been unavoidably and most officially detained. Her Majesty’s government wanted answers, were screaming for them, in fact. Sir Edwin and Lady Smallwood had sequestered Mycroft’s second in command and there was no hope of her coming any time soon. While he told her on the phone, and told himself that he didn’t need rescuing, Mycroft could feel the cold of the cell creeping inside him.

Given a thick blanket by a courteous, if harried, junior officer, Mycroft wrapped himself tightly and concentrated on controlling his shivers. His cold was psychosomatic, a symptom born of his solitude and the welling regret he’d been facing for hours. At no time had he been in any danger, nor were his vital signs low.  _ Calm, patience, _ he counseled himself. No one was riding a white horse to his aid, nor did anyone need to. He was perfectly capable of remaining in control until his statement had been given and he was released to leave the Island and retreat to his home.

Flinching at the idea of his home--so recently invaded and desanctified by Sherlock and Dr Watson--Mycroft curled his stiff fingers deeper into the scratchy material of the blanket and tipped his head back, exhaling slowly. Watching as his warm breath fogged into ghostly plumes in the cold night air, he at first failed to see the stars. As they slid into focus, Mycroft let out another breath, this one unconscious. Unbidden, a memory swam to the forefront of his mind.

* * *

  
  
  
  


“How was your dinner, sir?” Anthea asked cheekily, setting the first cup of tea of the day with precision on Mycroft’s blotter. Smoothing her pencil skirt behind her, she sat, reaching for her own china teacup. Blowing delicately at the steam, Anthea smiled, light eyes mischievous, “Carlo didn’t log out until nearly midnight...linger over our plates, did we?”

“Don’t be arch,” Mycroft reproved, hiding his smile in his teacup. In public he and his assistant had an unremarkable relationship, that of employer and employee. In private she was, after all these years, very decidedly his friend. Until Lestrade she had been his only true friend, one whose appreciation for him wasn’t influenced by his power and connections. Given the hours they’d spent talking over their meals, Mycroft was confident that he and the DI had turned the corner from friendly colleagues to friends. “Lestrade and I had a very enjoyable dinner and yes, we took our time chatting. The restaurant was excellent, my dear, you must try it some time.”

“Noted,” she said, eyebrow letting him know she’d clocked his attempt at redirection and was charging directly through it, “Now, about this chatting--”

“We discussed books and movies, our last holidays, that sort of thing,” Mycroft interrupted, “It was very pleasant.” Which was a pale, flabby descriptor of the hours they’d lingered over their plates, absorbed in talking. Mycroft hadn’t laughed so much in years, so far forgetting himself as to lean his elbows on the table and smile across at the man whose face practically shone with the same degree of happiness Mycroft had experienced. When Lestrade smiled, so broad and happy, it lightened the perpetual tension Mycroft carried in his shoulders, made him aware of a warm glow inside him, as sentimental as that sounded.

“Did you talk about work?” Anthea’s shell-pink-painted nails tightened around her tea cup, eyes wide with pleading,  _ “Please _ tell me you didn’t try to turn it into a ‘Sherlock’s wellbeing’ session?”

Mycroft wished for strength. He wished for a biscuit. “No--well, we did discuss  _ some _ work, as I  _ believe,”  _ he injected sass into his tone, “normally people do. But it didn’t take up the majority of our dinner.”

She practically purred with delight, “Oh good. You had dinner as friends. I was half afraid you’d try to turn it into a business write-off.”

“Oh ye of little faith. I told you I was treating it as a meal between friends.” He had, too. Mycroft reflected on the memory of Lestrade’s half-smile, his eyes bright in the candlelight, topping up Mycroft’s wine glass, urging more bread on him. Anthea had insisted that Lestrade might be couching his invitation in terms of thanks for Mycroft’s small part in his new housing situation, but that with the  _ slightest _ sign of warmth from Mycroft it could well be the beginning of friendship. Or, as she’d informed him, a  _ continuation _ of the tentative friendship Lestrade had been able to urge him into over the years. Anthea was, as always, more perceptive about personal matters than he.

“Did you suggest getting together again?”

Wondering if she had any biscuits at her desk he could pilfer, Mycroft hummed around a mouthful of cooling tea. Swallowing, he answered, “I did not.” Even as she inhaled sharply in protest, he continued, smirking a little, “Lestrade was most enthusiastic to see me again and he invited me around to his to flat for a ‘housewarming party.’” The idea made his insides squirm with pleasure, as if a nest of happy, wriggly snakes were doing the hula. Or perhaps it was hunger. He really would like a biscuit.

“You’re going to a  _ party? _ That isn’t  _ work related?” _ Anthea’s, soaked in shocked delight, rose sharply at the end.

He could feel himself colouring, “It’s, er, just going to be the two of us.” Oh god, the snakes were back, squirming with intent now.

Sitting up like a hunting dog with the scent of prey, she abandoned her tea cup on the desk and clasped her hands together, practically starry-eyed, “Mycroft…”

The heat in his cheeks burned brighter, “Do you have those buttery shortbread at your desk?” He asked, only slightly desperate. “It’s Friday, I think we deserve a bit of a treat.”

“You can have the entire tin to yourself if you tell me everything,” Anthea promised recklessly. She fetched the tin eagerly and popped it open, sitting it on the desk, only to immediately grab one for herself. Mycroft made a mild noise of inquiry and she smiled, “The entire tin except one or two for me.” Curling comfortably in her chair, she fixed her eyes on him, “Alright, so when is this housewarming party for two?”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  


During the years of Greg’s marriage to Delilah, he had fallen into a terrible pattern of bailing on plans with Pavan and Frank, or been reduced to snatching time spent with them without Delilah. Which was honestly for the best since she...didn’t really like them and they returned the feeling, although with better attempts at hiding it. All of which resulted in Greg meeting Frank for a quick drink, or popping by to see Daisy, Pav and the kids for an hour or two on a Saturday, while Delilah was at the salon getting pampered.

A very big upside to suddenly being separated, followed by divorced, was that he naturally had loads more free time. The Singhs were fond of hosting barbeques in their tiny patch of back garden, and were always throwing informal, noisy birthday parties for their growing brood of children and foster kids. Uncle Greg was always a welcome addition to both, and he was more than happy to show up early and stay late, helping wrap up leftovers, put over-stimulated and vaguely grubby kids to bed, or strong-arm Frank into helping him drag tables and chairs into the shed.

He’d never brought a date with him since he and Delilah called it quits, feeling that his friends deserved his undivided attention for a while. Besides, there hadn’t been anyone he was serious enough about to want to bring them ‘round.

Now though...Greg, helping Daisy wash the dishes, smiled out the little window over the sink, watching the three youngest chase one another around, while Frank and Pavan set up the projector and screen for movie time. Tonight it was  _ Brave, _ little Bargitta’s choice as birthday girl. “Hurry up,” Daisy urged, giving him a friendly shove with her bony little elbow, “They’ll start without us.”

“Can’t have that,” Greg agreed, and scrubbed harder. He was relaxed, content, happy to chill with his friends.

Two hours later he was less content, and getting rather annoyed with his friends. The three of them had joined forces to bully him into inviting “Mike” over the next time they had a party--which, given how many kids the Singhs housed, was going to be the next month, in June. 

“We want to meet your new best mate,” Frank said mournfully, repeatedly poking Greg in the thigh with the toe of his dirty trainer like the annoying man-child he was. “The bloke who’s stealing you away from us.” He batted blunt-lashed hazel green eyes sadly, lower lip poking out.

“He’s not--”

“Are you ashamed of us, is that it?” Pav asked, dark brown eyes practically liquid with sugary-sweet appeal. The ham. “We’re not as fancy as the man with ‘the Jag,’ guys, he’s throwing us over for a rich man!”

“Down with the patriarchy!” Daisy muttered, nearly asleep, three year old Fazil a pudgy puddle in her lap. Greg chuckled; clearly she’d lost the thread of the conversation. The bouncing of her husband’s shoulder as he joined Greg in laughter woke her. She roused herself from where she’d come to rest against Pav’s side to smile at Greg, “This little one and I are going to bed, don’t keep this one up too late, eh?” Leaning over, she kissed her husband with the kind of casual tenderness which still had the power to seize Greg’s chest up with longing. “Bring your fella, Greg, we all want to meet him.”

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Naturally he didn’t believe in wishes, luck and fortune. Such things were a matter of happenstance and coincidence, not an all-seeing fate directing the path of his life. Mycroft knew that much, even at the tender age of thirteen.

Tradition, however, was something he very much respected. 

“Blow out the candles, son,” Dad coaxed, smiling indulgently from behind his Leica. 

“Make a wish!” Mummy and Sherlock said almost in unison. Eurus, fingers tucked in her mouth, watched Mycroft, unblinking. He fought off a shiver, telling himself it was ridiculous to be unsettled by his five year old sister. Victor Trevor, Sherlock’s best friend and constant companion, had an arm slung around Sherlock’s neck, grinning. Aside from the three smaller children, his parents, and grand-mère, there was no one else at the party, although Uncle Rudy and Auntie Edith would be arriving the next day. Mycroft didn’t have any friends, being very much a social pariah.

Closing his eyes, he thought with a little desperate, embarrassed burst of longing,  _ I wish for a friend! _

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


Lestrade’s friends were warm and welcoming. While it was obvious they were very curious about him, and Mycroft could tell they’d been speculating with one another, if not with Lestrade, about the nature of their friendship, they were nothing but charming to his face. It was sincere, too, although there was a slight tinge of worry that he could read in all of them. Not directed at him personally, he divined, but rather that Greg hadn’t brought anyone around since he’d been with Delilah.

Their loyalty and concern did them justice, and only fueled Mycroft’s admiration for the trio. He was truly glad that Lestrade had a support network like this, even if he also found himself rather envious. If he’d ever had friends like these, it was entirely possible that he might not have ended up with the all-too-apt moniker of The Ice Man.

Not that he felt particularly icy today. In a nod to the warm weather and the fact that it was a child’s birthday party, Mycroft had worn stone-coloured trousers, tasseled loafers and a linen shirt. It was a great deal more formal than the other adults, but Lestrade’s eyes had reflected his surprise, pleasure and approval when he’d clapped eyes on him. Giving him a one-armed hug of the sort he’d begun bestowing almost unconsciously, the other man had murmured in his ear, “You’re putting the rest of us to shame, Myc. Daze’ll start making us dress up.”

“That won’t last past the first time one of the kids tips chocolate ice cream on my white shirt,” Pavan chuckled, arriving with drinks. He handed Mycroft his lemonade, “Sure you don’t want something stronger, Myc? Just because I don’t drink doesn’t mean you can’t! Daisy likes a glass of wine in the evenings after the kiddies are in bed, and I keep lager in for these two.”

Mycroft smiled at him, managing not to twitch at being called Myc by a stranger. He’d grown to be quite fond of hearing Lestrade say it, but it still brought back too many memories of his youth, and his years with Yardley, who’d always called him by the abbreviated nickname. Yardley had said they sounded like an insufferable pair of dicks if they both went by their given names, and as there was no good diminutive of Yardley, Myc it had been.

Hearing it from Mummy had brought back those years of happiness that had been taken away, and he’d made his stance clear on being addressed with his full name. But hearing it from Lestrade’s lips, in that casually fond tone, was a far different matter.

“I’d much prefer lemonade on a hot day like this,” Mycroft assured him, sipping with a carefully neutral face. He relaxed; it wasn’t some tinned atrocity, but actual lemonade, perfectly tart and lightly sweet. “This is delicious.”

“Good, innit?” Pavan asked with a broad smile, “Make it myself. The trick is to steep lemon rinds in boiling water…”

Mycroft, glancing up, caught sight of Lestrade, in conversation with a grandparent, looking at him with soft eyes. Trying to quell the leap in his heart, Mycroft attended to Pavan’s enthusiastic description of the perfect lemonade recipe. A good party guest didn’t moon over their companion and ignore their host. Even when said companion was giving one a look that made one’s insides go soft faster than ice cream left outside on a hot day.

It was a quite enjoyable affair, for all that it was a children’s party. Mycroft, who had been pleased by Lestrade’s invitation, but secretly braced to endure store-bought cake, raucous children, bugs, and inanity, was proven wrong. The cake was homemade and simple, but well worth the extra calories, as were the spread of foods on offer, a good majority of which, he was pleased to find, were vegetarian. The Singhs were excellent hosts, their family and friends prepared to be friendly, and while the children were noisy and boisterous, he found that he didn’t mind overly. 

Particularly not when Lestrade stood next to him and put a casual hand on Mycroft’s back. Thrilling to the toes of his carefully chosen loafers, Mycroft worked to keep his face relaxed. Either he was failing spectacularly, or Frank Blake was extremely perspicacious; Frank’s expression was smug, and he grinned and winked broadly when Mycroft caught his eye. Oh Lord. Mycroft coloured delicately.

Relaxing in garden chairs under the willow tree in the back garden, the adults nibbled on lunch while the children exhausted themselves playing in the inflatable bouncy castle the Singhs had rented for the day. Mycroft schooled his expression, even as his heart threatened to melt entirely when Lestrade, giving in to the imploring tugs of his honourary nieces and nephews, kicked off his trainers and joined the children in the castle.

Pavan, topping up Mycroft’s pink paper cup, said what it was obvious he and Frank had both been thinking. “You care about Greg as more than a friend, don’t you?”

He could have lied. He should have. It was his livelihood and he was very good at it. Mycroft, however,  _ liked _ these people, genuinely enjoyed their company and wished for their good opinion. Besides, he’d been carrying this secret around for so long, so many months without an outlet, no one but Anthea privy to it. Mycroft did the unprecedented and spoke honestly, scarcely hesitating before he did so.

“I do, Pavan.” He paused, swallowing, “I...would appreciate your discretion.”

“Greg’s bi, you know,” the other man said casually, “He’s been open about it for years. In case you were worried, or anything.”

“Yeah,” Frank said, popping up next to them and deeply scaring Mycroft,  _ who hadn’t heard him approaching. _ “Bit of an open secret.”

“Lestrade’s sexuality or my, erm, feelings?” Mycroft took a deep drink of his lemonade, hoping it would cool his cheeks. His eyes were fixed helplessly on the bright silver head bouncing about in the castle, surrounded by shrieking children. His heart felt helplessly, hopelessly, irretrievably lost. He’d given it to Greg Lestrade and wasn’t sure he cared to try and fetch it back.  _ Let him have it, _ he thought recklessly,  _ I haven’t been using it for anything. _

“Both,” Frank said, clapping him on the shoulder. He grinned at Mycroft, a bluff, almost rude, man, but with a surprisingly sweet smile, and a visible soft spot for the Singhs' extended brood. Lestrade had mentioned that Frank’d had a girlfriend years before who’d died of complications and sepsis from an ectopic pregnancy, and that Frank had never been able to be serious about another woman since.  _ He’s mad for kids, _ Lestrade had shared,  _ and they adore him. But he can’t bring himself to feel anything like that again, since Isla. _

Even if Lestrade hadn’t confessed that, Mycroft would have been able to deduce the man’s deep core of sadness. Behind his almost facile good-humour he was a man with wounds of his own.  _ Perhaps none of us are untouched by the past, _ Mycroft thought tentatively, feeling out the idea. But then, none of these good people had been responsible for the sorts of thing he had.

Steeling his resolve, he met their eyes, clearing his throat, “I...for reasons of my own I’d prefer you to say nothing to Lestrade. You’re his friends, and your loyalty is, and should be, first and foremost to him. But I ask you not to tell him of my...feelings.”

“It’s not our business,” Pavan said kindly. “But whatever it is that’s holding you back, maybe it shouldn’t be. Greg’s a good guy, a great guy, and it’s obvious he cares about you too.”

Mycroft, throat tight, didn’t dare answer. He was afraid of how close to the surface his feelings were.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Mycroft and Lestrade had been meeting with increasing frequency for several months, since their first dinner at Nonna’s. They’d dined out a number of times, mostly at small places Lestrade knew of--and as a cop he knew of many--but Nonna’s was beginning to feel like their place.

This time, however, Mycroft had managed to make it through an extremely trying week without resorting to either breaking his self-imposed ban on smoking, or overindulgence in sweets. While he was eager to see Lestrade, wanted the pleasure and comfort of his presence, Mycroft didn’t feel up to being in public. Since their housewarming party for two, he’d been to Lestrade’s once or twice more, but today Mycroft longed to be at home.

“Invite him round to yours, silly,” Anthea had finally suggested in exasperation when Mycroft fretted about his dilemma. “He’s already been cleared with security to enter your residence, and you know he’d be happy to accommodate you, especially if you tell him honestly you’re done in and need a quiet night at home.” She softened, “He’s your friend, Mycroft, you should let him in.” Clearly Anthea meant more than the physicality of inviting Lestrade to his home.

She was right, and he told her so, grateful as always for her unending support. A text to Lestrade secured his easy agreement to change their plans. The man was criminally easy-going, it was no doubt ridiculous that he’d been concerned at altering their intended evening. But then, he  _ was  _ ridiculous when it came to Lestrade.

Arriving home a good hour before Lestrade was due gave Mycroft an opportunity to lock away his files, shower, and dress in trousers and a cashmere jumper. He’d already arranged for Anthea to pick up their usual order from Nonna’s and deliver it to the house before she went home for the weekend, and he decided to descend into his wine cellar in search of a few bottles of red and a bottle of prosecco to chill for dessert.

The formal dining room wasn’t anyplace he wanted to enjoy the kind of relaxed dinner he normally had with Greg, and his kitchen was...no. Biting his lip, Mycroft hadn’t decided where it would be best to dine when his doorbell rang, signaling Lestrade’s presence on his doorstep. 

Stepping inside, Lestrade instantly warmed up the often chilly space, looking around in interest. “Myc, this place…!” he trailed off with an admiring whistle.

  
Mycroft brushed his words aside, “It belonged to my uncle Rudy. He had a taste for the dramatic.”

“Sounds like someone I know,” Lestrade winked, shrugging out of his trenchcoat. He watched as Mycroft hung it in the small coat closet, “Gimme the tenpenny tour?”

Glancing at the grandfather clock, Mycroft nodded, “There should be time before Anthea arrives with dinner.” As he led Lestrade through the rooms, he examined them through the other man’s eyes, finding the house dark, empty and ostentatious. While it was true that he’d not changed much since inheriting the house, he had introduced some new pieces, and touches of his own. Mostly, however, Mycroft had left things alone, and he realized now that his home, for all it made a dramatic statement, didn’t much reflect him. Lestrade smiled at him when they fetched back in the hall, “Please tell me we’re eating in your dining room.”

“You wish to?” Mycroft was startled.   
  


“Yeah! Great Italian food, excellent company and such a dramatic space? Sign me up! I love those giant chess pieces. We should play sometime.”

“They’re difficult to move,” Mycroft said mildly, and grinned at Lestrade’s shout of laughter.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


“All I hear is ‘Myc this’ and ‘Myc that,’” Haley complained with a good-natured poke to Greg’s ribs. They shifted slightly forward in the long queue, trying not to jostle anyone in the crowded café. At least once a month the siblings tried to get together for coffee and a catch-up, and this Costa was halfway between their flats. “When am I going to  _ meet _ Mr Perfect?”

Greg blushed. Oh Christ, maybe he’d been a little too enthusiastic when talking about the other man. He couldn’t help it though. Myc was just...so... _ great.  _ He thought of his friendliness and ease at the birthday party, the relaxed pleasure in his face the other evening at his house. Greg’d been thrilled to finally get a peek in Mycroft’s house, and it hadn’t disappointed. Maybe it was a tad stiff, not quite as lived in as Greg’s place, but that wasn’t a bad thing! Mycroft was a different person, and his habitat should reflect that.

It was a great space for having a spirited debate over their favourite film detectives during dinner, for relaxing in the cinema loungers, captivated by the flickering images on the giant screen in Mycroft’s _ private home theatre.  _ Greg was utterly spoiled. He’d never be able to enjoy another film on his flat screen again and so he’d told Myc! Myc had gone faintly pink and insisted that he would be happy to host all movie nights at his.

“Earth to Greg!” Haley cleared her throat. He glanced up, blinking when he realized they were next in line. Hastily he ordered, and they paid up, shifting to go find an empty table they could squeeze into while their coffees were made. “You were daydreaming about Mr Perfect again, weren’t you?”

“Um…”

She bit her lip, dark eyes thrilled, “Greg!  _ Are you two dating?” _

“I...don’t...know?” Greg groaned, “It sometimes feels like we’re just seconds away from a big, cinematic kiss and a declaration of love. Then. He just...pulls away. Puts up walls.” Groaning in frustration, he drove his hands into his hair, aware of his sister’s sympathetic eyes on him. “Honestly, Haley, if we’re never more than friends, I’d still be happy. _ Myc _ makes me happy, and I think I do the same for him. We, we just fit. But,” he sighed explosively, “I can see us as a couple, I really can!” He moaned pitifully, burying his face in their clasped hands, “I just love him so much.”

“Love,” She whispered, and he didn’t have to see her face to know she was both smiling and also worried. “What’s stopping you from telling him how you feel? You’ve never been afraid to be the first one to make a move.”

“Myc’s really good at reading people, Haley, he’s like Sherlock that way. Pretty sure he knows I’m interested. I, just, well I think he’s trying to let me down gently by not having to let me down at all. If I say something and he has to say he’s not into me, that could wreck what we  _ do _ have.”

“I c’n tell it’s eating at you, sweetie,” his sister commiserated, brushing her fingers over his hands where they were knotted on the tabletop. Their number was called and she stood, standing over him for a minute, face serious, “You need to decide if living like this is worth not taking a chance.”

He watched absently as she threaded through the tables. He’d never been a coward, and he didn’t think he was being one now. No Myc at all was the worst case scenario. Friendship wasn’t, as Haley seemed to think, some pale consolation prize. No, friendship with Myc, if that was all he ever got, was amazing, and he wasn’t letting go of that easily. Not for what-ifs.

  
  
  
  


Of all the people whom Mycroft might have expected to give him grief over his feelings for Lestrade, it would not have been the five foot two strawberry-blonde with masses of freckles, standing in her bare feet with a baby on her hip. Shifting the dark-skinned little...boy?...one of her numerous foster children up with a little hitch, Daisy Singh gave him a mild smile, eyes sharp. “So you ‘n Greg’ve been chummy for a while now. A year, innit?”

“Ah, yes, nearly,” Mycroft stumbled, genuinely surprised that she was correct. They’d known one another far longer of course, but, as she pointed out, they’d grown ‘chummy’ some ten months hence. 

“Glad he finally brought you around,” Daisy mused, snagging a carrot from a tray of crudité and offering it to the baby, who crowed happily before gumming it with a ferocious expression. She smoothed a hand over the infant’s small back, smiling pleasantly, “Seems like you’re pretty important to Greg, and since he’s important to  _ us, _ I wanted to make sure you know that if you hurt him, we’ll not take kindly to it.”

He was--he was getting the shovel talk from a tiny mum. Mycroft blinked at her, honestly surprised. He’d not seen this coming. “Mrs Singh, I assure you, I’ve no intention of hurting Lestrade.” He put a sincere hand over his heart, “That’s the furthest thing from my mind.”

Her look was cool, if perfectly civil. Grunting noncommittally, she took the slobbery, gnawed-on carrot from the suddenly disinterested baby and absently offered it to the well-behaved elderly Labrador who shadowed her. “Good,” she smiled, eyes keen. “Let’s keep it that way. We had ringside seats to the shitshow that was his marriage to Delilah. Trust me when I say we won’t let him be hurt like that again.”

Mycroft swallowed, humbled that she even thought he could possibly have the power to decimate Greg’s heart like that. “Mrs S--Daisy.” He held out a hand and, regarding him warily, she put hers in his palm. He clasped it between both of his and promised solemnly, “Daisy, I swear I will never intentionally hurt Gregory Lestrade. I’d like to do my utmost to smooth his path in life. He deserves nothing but happiness.”

Her expression eased, and she squeezed his hand. “On that we agree.”

“That we do,” Mycroft said softly, glancing across the garden, eyes seeking Lestrade, as they had been all day. Smiling suddenly, sincerely, he gave her an appraising look, “If ever you decide to return to a career outside of the home, do contact me. I’d rather have you on my team than face you as an opponent. You, madam, are formidable.” He began chuckling, “Although, if I introduce you to Anthea I’m quite sure the two of you would render me obsolete!”

* * *

  
  
  
  


Some childhood superstitions never leave us, even as we grow into ‘rational’ adults. Mycroft had never been scared of the dark, of the unknown, had ceased to believe in Father Christmas when he was seven. Wonder and magic hadn’t really been something he could put any faith in.

But despite ‘knowing better’ he’d never quite gotten over the childish habit of wishing on birthday candles, stray eyelashes, and falling stars. 

This dark, cold night on Sherrinford there were no falling stars--except for his own. Once so indispensable to the Crown, so mighty in his power and reach, Mycroft could clearly see the future set out in front of him. He was done, his reign ended, his light extinguished. No one would trust his omnipotence any longer, now that Eurus’ machinations had revealed just how weak and fragile Mycroft’s ability was.

Worse, he himself had seen how flimsy a construct his so-called power was. He’d been revealed as weak, human, fallible. Worst, most devastatingly of all, Sherlock had been endangered because of him. All these years, all he’d done, to the best of his ability, was to strive to keep his beloved younger brother safe. Only to lead him directly into the hands of their dangerously unhinged and vindictive sister. 

Thinking of Eurus, as always filled him with guilt, unease, fear and discomfort. It was hard not to hold himself accountable for her condition. Why had he never been able to love her the way he did Sherlock? Why did he not do everything in his power to cushion her from life’s blows? Sentiment. Always sentiment. He loved Sherlock, cherished him, in fact, but he was frightened of Eurus, unsettled by her. He’d done his utmost to ensure Sherlock was safe, never mind his sister.

It was useless for him to close his eyes to reality and long for an easy way out. There was no happy ending, no knight on a white horse riding to his rescue. Only a crinkly space blanket, bitter tea in a flimsy cup, and a whirlwind of action in the background, none of which touched him.

Closing his eyes, Mycroft willed back the tears that kept threatening, swallowed down his pitching emotions. Once he was back home he could allow himself to fall apart. Until then he would sit here, the picture of calm, the eye of the storm as controlled chaos swirled around him. 

No stars in the heavens were conveniently falling for him to wish upon. Mycroft, tipping his head back, drew in a slow, controlled breath and scanned the night sky, hoping wistfully for one. Instead, he fixed his eyes on the brightest star and wished he weren’t alone.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


The entire journey to Sherrinford was a nightmare. Anthea had done everything she could to smooth the way for Greg, but he suspected she was up to her neck because of the fallout of the night’s actions. Nothing so uncontrolled as hysteria had been evident in her tone, but he could read between the lines to her tremendous worry over Mycroft. She wasn’t alone in that--Greg had spoken to him briefly earlier, before he’d approached Sherlock and John, and it was clear Mycroft’s control over himself was stretched thin to the point of breaking. They hadn’t been able to talk much, as the phone had been on speaker on Mycroft’s end, and it was evident there were other people in the room.

Anxiety screaming inside him, shrieking like an air raid siren, Greg finally hopped out of the helicopter, hardly waiting for it to touch down before he was out, running, although he didn’t have the faintest clue where he was going. The honking big building with searchlights and emergency vehicles seemed like an excellent place to start his search for Myc. He’d tear the fucking island down if he had to. Stone by stone, bare handed.

Greg’d managed to hold it together, play it cool, mask his worry, but the closer he got to Myc, the brighter burned the fire fueling him. He just--he just needed to get his hands on Mycroft, hold him, make sure he was alright.

Too keyed up for diplomacy, Greg shoved his warrant card in people’s faces, barking, “Mycroft Holmes, where is he?” and following the pointed arms and nodded heads until he spied the familiar figure, rendered almost unrecognizable. Wrapped in a reflective emergency blanket, hair disordered, Mycroft hunched on the edge of a raised bed of ornamental shrubs. The klieg lights washed him pale as milk, nearly blue, and gaunt. Heart in freefall, Greg took off running, shouting Mycroft’s name hoarsely, throat closing with the strength of his emotions.

Mycroft looked up, searched for him, and when he caught sight of Greg, something changed in his face, broke, heartbreak cracking out of him. Staggering to his feet, blanket falling from him like a premature shroud, he gasped out Greg’s name, moving forward jerkily, arms out. Before he could stumble and fall, Greg was there, dragging him close, hugging him to his chest, sucking in grateful breaths, breathing in his familiar Myc smell. _ Fuck fuck fuck _ played in his mind, a profane prayer of gratitude. It was all he could manage to think. That and  _ thank you. _

Voice cracking, Mycroft clung to him, face shoved hard against Greg’s neck, smashing himself close. “Greg,” he breathed, over and over.

“‘m here,” Greg soothed, trying not to clutch at him, shaking now that he had Myc in his arms. “Not going anywhere, darlin’.”

  
  
  
  
  


* * *

Greg had come for him. In answer to his prayer, his  _ wish _ , his heartfelt plea, Greg had done the impossible. He’d heard him and he’d come to Mycroft’s rescue.

Further proving he was a magician, Greg cut through all the nonsense and within the hour they were in a helicopter, lifting off the Island, headed for the City. “He can give his statement tomorrow, after he’s had sleep,” Greg had growled, one arm still around Mycroft, who had merely stood silent, quiescent, for once willing to allow someone else to take charge. “He’s been through hell and I’m taking him home for what’s left of the night. You lot can talk to him tomorrow--late tomorrow.”

Mycroft would have smiled, but he was so incredibly weary that he managed nothing more than a weak tilt to one corner of his mouth. Letting it sag, the amusement fading almost before it had fully formed, Mycroft walked toward the waiting transport, grateful for the solidity of Greg’s arm at his waist. Once he was buckled in, Mycroft, not even thinking, reached for Greg, and found Greg already reaching back. His eyes met Mycroft’s, and squeezing his hand, he mouthed, “Alright?”

_ Not really, _ Mycroft thought, clinging to Greg, _ but better now you’re here. _

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


In the end, Mycroft couldn’t face his house, his former sanctuary. Not that Greg could blame him. He hardly wanted to be alone, much less in the house so recently invaded and despoiled by his brother and John. “You’re coming home with me,” Greg said, and Mycroft had needed no urging. There was something soft about him, an unguarded gentleness that Greg would have welcomed if it hadn’t been brought about in such a horrible manner. 

If he’d imagined Myc here, in his house, preparing to spend the night--and he had--Greg would have thought of it all in soft focus. Smoke-soft romance, a lingering dinner, brushes of their hands, speaking glances. Maybe it would have started with breathless kisses, longing dates, desperate necking in the back of Myc’s saloon car, culminating in passion, declarations of love, achingly tender lovemaking.

Greg would have cleaned his flat top to bottom, put brand new, high-thread-count sheets on the bed, lit candles, laid in supplies for a lavish breakfast in the morning. He would have had romantic music, flowers, slow dancing...anything Myc wanted.

Instead Greg was wishing desperately that he’d had time to give his tub a good scrub, even as he sent up silent thanks that he had some clean towels laid by. “Use any of the products you want,” he urged, looking around distractedly, while Mycroft stood in the small loo, looking drained. “I’ll put the kettle on, yeah? Gonna give Anthea a call, dial her in, let her know you’re with me.” He backed slowly out of the room, loathe to leave the other man alone. “Call ‘f’you need me, kay?”

Nodding, Myc reached slowly for the buttons of his waistcoat, and Greg hastily ducked out, pulling the door closed. If he ever got to see Myc unclothed, it was going to be under better circumstances. He hoped.

Anthea didn’t answer, so after plugging in the kettle, Greg sent her a detailed text and reached for a pan, deciding he’d make something quick for them to eat. Myc probably hadn’t eaten in hours. Stopping, he picked up his phone and sent another text to Anthea, then put his phone away and concentrated on preparing a quick meal, aware of the water pounding down in the loo. Just as he was starting to worry he’d have to go in and pull a water-logged and emotionally devastated Mycroft out of the shower, Greg heard the water shut off with a screech of the pipes. Wincing, he glanced at the time and hoped his neighbors weren’t bothered.

Carrying food and tea to the coffee table in front of the sofa, Greg realized he was still wearing his rain-damp trench coat and shoes. Grimacing, he peeled it off and hung it in the narrow entry, hastily removed his shoes, and washed his hands again. Watching the water swirl down the drain, abruptly Greg acknowledged how bloody exhausted he was; the terror which had gripped him from the moment he received news that 221B had been the site of an explosion and that it was unknown if there were any survivors had crossed his desk hadn’t truly relented for hours. The first moment of peace he’d known had been when Mycroft folded into his arms. Shakily exhaling, he switched off the taps and reached for a tea towel, eyes burning with tears and fatigue.

He’d just returned to the sofa when Mycroft appeared, dressed in a pair of too-short joggers and a too-large t-shirt, feet bare and vulnerable. He hesitated in the doorway, and Greg patted the cushion next to him, smile gentle, “C’mon, sit down. I made us something to eat. Get that in you and then you’re going to bed.”

“I should call…” Mycroft trailed off, as if unsure just  _ who _ he should call. He worried his lower lip with his teeth, eyes tight and anxious.

“Time enough tomorrow,” Greg said with tender firmness. He held out a mug of soup, “Sit. Eat. I’ve talked to Anthea and John. She has things under control, and John’s taken Sherlock to his place. You can talk to him tomorrow, yeah?”

“If he even wants to talk to me,” Mycroft muttered, but sat, obediently taking the soup.

“Myc,” Greg sighed, putting a hand between Mycroft’s shoulder blades, soothing him, grounding him. “He asked me to go to you, he was worried about you.”

Looking at Greg with huge eyes, Mycroft asked in a small voice, “Really?”

Greg scooted closer, snugging himself along Mycroft’s side, rejoicing when the other man leaned into him, resting his slight weight against Greg, seeking his heat and assurance. Winding a tender arm more snugly around Mycroft’s body, Greg dared to brush a tender nose over Mycroft’s hair. “He loves you, darlin’, he’s worried about his big brother.”

Inhaling shakily, sounding close to tears, Mycroft clutched at his mug, as if it’s solid warmth was all that grounded him. Letting his head rest on Greg’s shoulder, he sat quietly for a few minutes, before he gave a sniff and sat up, moving away slightly. Bringing the mug to his mouth, ignoring the spoon Greg had set on the table, he sipped at the soup. “Did you make toast?” he asked.

Greg’s heart quaked, and he told himself to hold it together. He couldn’t fall apart, not when Myc needed him. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely, clearing his throat, “I’ll just fetch it, shall I?”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Incredibly, Mycroft managed to sleep. It was an uneasy sleep, from which he woke more than once, confused and disoriented, before recalling where he was. Safe in Greg’s flat, snug in his bed, wrapped in a duvet that smelled of Greg. Burying his face in Greg’s pillow, breathing in his familiar smell, Mycroft kept his eyes squeezed closed, trying to will himself back to sleep.

It wasn’t quite seven, but he was miserably aware that he was awake for the day. No escaping back into sleep for him. Time to get up and face the music. It would be a grim, dolorous tune worthy of Wagner, he thought with a touch of black humour. Rising with reluctance, he crept quietly down the narrow hallway toward the loo, not wishing to wake Greg, who had insisted on sleeping on the sofa. They’d had a brief argument about it, but Greg was intractable, and Mycroft had been entirely too exhausted and dispirited to do anything other than capitulate.

When he had used the toilet and washed his hands and face, and brushed his teeth with the spare toothbrush Greg had given him, Mycroft stole back out, intending on returning to the bedroom and placing a quiet call to Anthea. He’d hidden out long enough, time to face the music.

Or not, as it happened. Anthea didn’t answer. As he hung up, wavering on whether or not to call his brother, Mycroft heard Greg stirring in the lounge. Fiddling with his mobile, staring at the unread text from Sherlock, heart shying away from the coming confrontation, Mycroft was deeply grateful to smell coffee brewing. Clutching at the delay, he smoothed his hair and ventured into the lounge, following his nose into the kitchen, where Greg was leaning against the kitchen bench, heavy-eyed as he waited on the coffee. Croaking good morning, he gave Mycroft a tentative smile.

Mycroft hesitated for a moment, smile hardly formed in response, but he remembered the inexpressible comfort of Greg’s touch and drifted across the kitchen, only faintly afraid of rejection. Greg, face lighting, opened his arms, which closed around Mycroft as naturally as if they’d been doing this for years. Mycroft hummed in contentment, letting his face press to Greg’s shoulder, even though it flattened his nose. Who needed to breathe?

Hand sweeping up and down Mycroft’s back, Greg murmured in his ear; nonsense, not real words. Mycroft tightened his arms around Greg, breathing him in, letting his heartbeat settle into the same rhythm, unbearably comforted. “Greg,” he sighed. That was all, but it seemed to be enough. Greg turned his head and let his lips lightly press to Mycroft’s cheek. “Darlin’,” he whispered, “‘m so glad you’re alright. God, it killed me not to come straight to you.”

“Sherlock comes first,” Mycroft said.

“Not in my heart,” Greg breathed, pulling back, framing Mycroft’s jaw in his palms. His eyes were achingly tender, and Mycroft’s heart hurt. “You’re first, sweetheart, have been for some time.”

“Greg, I--”

The urgent ringing of his phone tore through the fragile moment as roughly as if it were mere tissue. Mycroft jerked back, aware of both regret and gratitude for the interruption. He didn’t want to have to hurt Greg, but the inevitable conversation could be delayed just a bit longer. “I have to--”

He answered swiftly, listening with increasing grimness, aware of Greg pouring them both cups of coffee, dropping wholewheat bread into the toaster, gesturing that he was making a quick meal. Mycroft, grimly aware that he wouldn’t be able to stay, tried to wave him off, but Greg turned his back, giving Mycroft a semblance of privacy for his conversation.

By the time he was off the phone, there was a ringing at the street bell and Greg jogged downstairs to answer it. He returned just as Mycroft, face splashed with water and hair hastily subdued with Greg’s comb, exited the loo. “This is for you,” Greg said, bemused, holding out a carrier bag and a garment bag. “There’s a car waiting.”

“Duty calls,” Mycroft said stiffly, taking them and disappearing again. He emerged, dressed and feeling more himself, to find Greg waiting with a travel mug of coffee and a wrapped bundle. 

“It’s not much,” Greg apologized, shifting from foot to foot, teeth sinking into his lower lip. He gave Mycroft an upward glance, subdued, “Thought you might want a bite to eat. Fortify yourself for…whatever’s coming.”

Mycroft took the mug, “Thank you, Lestrade.” His tone was cool, his eyes shuttered. He saw Greg register the change, and battened down the urge to take his hand. “I’m afraid I won’t risk eating in the car, but I welcome the coffee.” He squared his shoulders, “My thanks for your hospitality last night. I’m in your debt.”

“I don’t want…” He trailed off, eyes miserable. He was an astute man, he saw the divide Mycroft was creating between them, and that it was purposeful. He swallowed heavily, misery in his eyes, “Yeah. Sure.”

_ I’m sorry, _ Mycroft thought, awash in his own, perhaps greater, share of misery.  _ Oh my darling, I am sorry. _ Aloud he said his goodbyes, knowing it was best if this time he meant them for good.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Four days.

Greg hadn’t seen nor heard from Mycroft in four days. Sherlock might as well have been a ghost, not once needling him with texts, or popping up like a spectre in the office. John, when at last he replied to Greg’s attempts to get hold of him, told him the younger man was staying with him and Rosie while Baker Street was under construction. No word on Mycroft.

In those four, awful, interminable days, Greg thought about a lot of things. About duty and honour, family and friendship, desire and denial. He considered showing up at Whitehall, at The Diogenes, calling Mycroft, calling Anthea. But he did none of those things. No, after a text late that night, when he’d last seen Myc, Greg hadn’t wanted to bother him. Mycroft was under incredible stress right now, and he didn’t need Greg clinging to him like a needy limpet, whining for his attention. Sending him a gentle message, hoping all was well and telling his friend to call him if he needed anything, Greg sat on his desire to seek Mycroft out.

It was hard not to think of fate--of how it twisted its way into your life until you couldn’t even see it, you were so used to it. Myc had grown to be a part of him, deeply rooted. Greg knew that if he was forced by awful circumstance to tear those roots out, he would suffer terribly. Losing his friendship with Myc would be a thousand times worse than finding out Delilah had cheated on him.

Through all the twists and turmoils of his life, loves found and lost, Greg had had the faint comfort of the card. While he’d at times dismissed or scoffed at it, nonetheless he had also borne a distant hope that it was true. Now, with the silence and distance from Mycroft, he wanted it, whether to wish on, or destroy, he couldn’t say. When he went searching for it in the drawer where he’d last left it, it was nowhere to be found.

The card had always seemed to have a mind of its own. Appearing whenever it chose, turning up where he was certain he’d not left it. But never before had Greg gone seeking it and not found it. He tore his flat apart, growing increasingly frantic, worried in some nameless way he couldn’t express. The card bearing his fate was gone.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Mummy’s words still echoing in his ears--and in his heart--Mycroft walked with precise steps down the corridor, face cold, eyes shielded. Since events on the Island had imploded, he’d become persona non grata around Whitehall. Suddenly the Ice Man, the man who shaped events and rulers to his will, was being stared at and whispered about. Sir Edwin was triumphant, Lady Smallwood personally regretful and professionally firm. He was out. 

Oh, not officially. Officially he was taking a personal leave--indefinite--and would be passing the reins over to Sir Edwin’s people. He’d fought hard for Anthea to be granted the position. She was more than capable, he’d trained her himself. But then, that was a detriment, now. Feeling vaguely queasy, aware of a headache coming on like an out-of-control freight train, Mycroft placed his feet with care, lightheaded, afraid he might stumble. Awful as all of this was, he was dreading the coming meeting with Anthea. He didn’t want to tell her that she’d backed the wrong horse.

Arriving at his suite, he found her waiting at her desk, outwardly calm, eyes worried. “If you’ll join me, my dear,” he invited, amazed at his steady voice, “I have some news…”

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Anthea was  _ livid. _

This was outside of too fucking much. Mycroft Holmes had given his entire adult life in service of his country, and his family, and in one day he’d lost them both. Fuck that ice queen of a mother of his. Fuck his spineless father and the slimy Sir Edwin, the politically savvy and entirely too-pleased-with-herself Lady Smallwood. Fuck Whitehall and the establishment and every last suited arsehole in these hallowed halls.

“Anthea,” Mycroft all but begged, bracing his hands on her desk, face haggard, “attend to reason, please. You cannot throw your career away after mine!”

“Listen,” Anthea all but snarled, impeccably manicured fingers flashing as she typed up her sizzling resignation letter with glee, words cutting with precision. Not a single one of her colleagues was spared. “I’m not throwing away anything. I’m choosing to walk away from a pack of idiots who don’t know that they’re shooting themselves in the foot.” She stopped talking long enough to look him dead in the eye. “Mycroft, you’re the reason I’ve stayed here. I could have my pick of positions. More than one bigwig has tried to hire me away. But you are the reason I’ve remained as your assistant for ten years when I might have moved on to ‘bigger things.’”

His eyes were sorrowful, “I don’t deserve you.”

“Friendship isn’t a ledger, and you deserve every bit of love and loyalty you inspire.” Anthea turned her attention to her laptop. “Now, pour us some Scotch and come help me roast these tossers.”

Mycroft saluted, it wasn’t snappy, but he had some colour in his face. Good. “Yes ma’am,” he replied, smiling a little. “Don’t hit send until I’ve given it an eye--I have rather a lot to say, come to think of it.”

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


Greg’s doorbell rang, sounding sickly. It had been growing increasingly weak for some time now. He frowned; he’d emailed the building super, but nothing had happened. He had a lot of extra time on his hands these days, what with his evenings and weekends being painfully free, he supposed he’d just take care of it himself. Hauling himself up to the demands of his doorbell, Greg sighed, glad that he at least wasn’t in just his pants. It was a boring Saturday, full of nothing but chores and laundry. He’d finally sat down with a cider to watch a movie, and now someone was interrupting the first bit of pleasure he’d experienced in weeks.

His lethargy and vague irritation vanished when Greg opened the door to find Myc standing there, pale and soft-mouthed. His normal armour--both physical as well as emotional--seemed to have vanished. Soft, unshielded, rumpled in his chinos, button down and tousled curls, Mycroft was emotionally naked, face anxious and desperately hopeful. Greg’s heart leapt inside him, pulse racing, and all he wanted was to drag Myc across the threshold and into his arms. 

But he was done being a glutton for punishment. Done flagellating his heart and pride. Myc wasn’t Delilah, true, not someone capable of that kind of cruelty, but he held the power to devastate Greg in ways his ex never had.

So Greg opened the door wider and stepped back. “Come in,” he greeted in a subdued voice. He wasn’t going to act normal and friendly, as if Myc’s weeks of silence hadn’t hurt, but neither was he going to turn his friend away. Because in the end, no matter what else had happened between them--or been about to happen--they were friends.

Licking his lips, Myc entered the flat but didn’t move to sit down. “How have you been?” His voice was soft, his eyes softer still. His affection was palpable.

Greg sighed, letting his shoulders drop, “Pretty shitty. I’ve missed you. Been worried.”

Sorrow filled Myc’s eyes, he made an aborted movement toward Greg’s hand, but let his own drop before he made contact, “I’m sorry, Greg, I was trying not to hurt you--and instead I did just that, it seems.”

Dropping down onto the sofa, Greg scrubbed his tired face with his hands, “God, Myc, you’re my friend. If you didn’t want more, if I was pushing too fast, or too hard, you could have just told me. I know my timing was shitty, I realize that. But you walked out that door and just...vanished.”

Seating himself tentatively on the coffee table, Mycroft leaned his arms on his knees, hands hanging between them, and stared at the carpet. “I’ll admit I was overwhelmed, but that’s no excuse for treating you so shabbily.” Inhaling, he held his thoughts for a minute, then exhaled, lifting his head to regard Greg with tender eyes, “I did walk out of here with the intention of cutting ties--” he held up a staying hand, eyes begging Greg for patience. “--convinced it was the right thing, the honourable thing to do.”

Greg’s voice rasped around the emotion which clogged it. “Why’d you change your mind?”

“I’ve...had a lot of changes in the last month,” Mycroft breathed out, “My family--” he stumbled to a halt, unable to continue for a moment, and Greg, heart aching, reached for his hands. Flashing him a grateful, damp-eyed smile, Myc clung to them. “I am...cut loose, Greg. By my parents, by Whitehall. I’m poison, untouchable.” He looked down, trying to blink away tears, but they clung, shimmering, to his lashes. “I have nothing to offer you. Once I might have dared dream you might want my--. My power, my influence, they’ve been obliterated. I am...my, my reputation is in  _ tatters. _ I shouldn’t even be here, risking sullying you with--you should cut your losses. You should--”

Greg slipped off the sofa, onto his knees, shuffling closer to Myc, until the younger man moved his knees apart and let Greg crowd close. Letting go of Myc’s hands, Greg raised his palms to cup Mycroft’s jaw gently. “Idiot,” he said tenderly, rubbing a soothing thumb over Mycroft’s lower lip, watching his eyelids flutter, taking in the lines of stress, the pale blue shadows under his eyes, “Those things don’t mean anything to me, never have, Myc.” He gave a tiny tug and his heart rejoiced when Mycroft swayed closer, eyes shyly fixed to Greg’s mouth. “I want the man, not the politician.”

A soft sob on his lips, Mycroft crashed into Greg, arms going around him tight, shaking. He was gasping Greg’s name brokenly, fingers trembling as they fisted tight in Greg’s sweatshirt. “I t-thought I’d lost you--thought I’d n-never be able to--” he cut off with a choked sob, unable to continue.

Greg made gentle shushing noises, brushing his lips over Mycroft’s cheek, his temple. “I got you, sweetheart,” he murmured, stroking Mycroft’s heaving back, “I’ve got you…”

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


He was the luckiest man in the world. 

For the second time, Mycroft slept in Greg’s bed. Not alone, this time. No, this time he was held warmly, snugly in Greg’s arms. His head was cradled on Greg’s chest, the reassuring beat of his heart a cadence of comfort and joy, which had lulled Mycroft to sleep the night before, and which held him in a pattern of relaxation this morning.

They’d done no more than exchange kisses; passionate, true, and heartfelt, but chaste. Greg, thumbs rubbing mesmerizing circles on Mycroft’s cheeks, had smiled lovingly into his eyes, “I don’t expect anything you’re not ready to give me, Myc, just remember that. We’re the only two people who matter, and we can take all the time we need.” He’d brushed his nose over Mycroft’s, face suffused with a happiness it was impossible to fake, “‘m just happy to be able to tell you I love you.”

Remembering his words with perfect clarity, Mycroft buried his warm face in Greg’s chest, heart beating with pleasure. He’d scarcely ceased smiling since the night before.    
  
“What’re you wriggling about like that for?” Greg asked groggily, arms tightening around him. He snuggled his cheek onto Mycroft’s no-doubt wildly disordered hair. His chest expanded with a happy sigh, “Tryin’ to get away?”

“Never,” Mycroft vowed softly, inching just a little closer. It wasn’t really physically possible, but his body yearned to try. Greg accommodatingly wrapped him tighter. “I’m simply...happy.”

“I’m glad,” Greg said roughly, tipping Mycroft’s chin up so he could bestow a kiss on him. Mycroft found he didn’t care at all about morning breath, something he would have imagined to be rather an impediment to romance. “S’m I.”

They kissed softly, feet winding together beneath the sheets, hands roaming softly. Happiness, warm as an ember, expanded like a balloon in his chest. Mycroft felt born aloft by the sensation, rather than panicked. For years he’d feared that a personal attachment of a romantic nature would stifle him, restrict him, fill him with resentment. Instead, he felt his happiness doubling, trebling.Toes curling happily, Mycroft shifted a trifle, and Greg obligingly rolled onto his back, letting Mycroft ease himself almost on top of him. He put his hands on Mycroft’s hips, smiling into his eyes. “Good morning, gorgeous.”

“Good morning,” Mycroft returned gravely, before smiling. He dipped his head and kissed Greg again, already addicted to his mouth.

There was no urgency to their movements, for which Mycroft was grateful. Although he found the idea of a physical relationship with Greg exciting and exhilarating, he was also not...quite...ready. But there was time. They had all the time in the world, the two of them.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


When they finally dragged themselves out of bed, Greg insisted Myc take the first shower while he made them breakfast. If he’d known they would have a reconciliation and a momentous night, Greg would have laid in supplies for a far more romantic breakfast. As it was, he had some frozen fruit which he blended into smoothies, and he scrambled eggs and buttered toast, wishing he had something more to offer.

Mycroft, however, seemed shyly delighted at being pampered thus, and their food cooled as they stood entwined next to the cooker, trading kisses. Greg hummed happily, stroking greedy hands up and down Myc’s back, unwilling to let go of him. “Your breakfast is getting cold,” he whispered with regret, trying to ease back.

“Don’t care,” Myc murmured, trailing his nose lightly along Greg’s neck and huffing a laugh at the shiver it earned him. Now that he had permission to touch, he seemed loath to stop. Greg wasn’t going to be the responsible one here. He leaned against the bench and cuddled Myc to him, breathing in happily, letting his hands wander gently, pressing soft kisses wherever he could reach, ruffling Myc’s drying hair, hoping desperately that it would result in the adorable curls he’d glimpsed from time to time. “You sustain me better than any food.”

Greg’s knees went weak, and his eyes stung with happy tears, “Darlin’,” he whispered hoarsely, burying his face in Myc’s neck, “Sweetheart…”

They hugged tightly, rocking ever so slightly. At last he pulled back to breathe, dashing at the dampness on his cheeks, “You’re making me soppy,” he teased gently, and glowed at the kiss Myc tenderly pressed to his cheek.

“Soppy is a good look on you,” Mycroft assured him, brushing a thumb over Greg’s bottom lip. “However, I heard your stomach growl demandingly, and far be it from me to stand in the way of a hungry man and his breakfast.”

“It’s nothin’ special,” Greg excused, pulling out Mycroft’s chair and then scooting his own close enough that their knees bumped cozily. “If I’d known this was the first day of the rest of our lives, I’d have gone all out.”

Threading his fingers through the hair behind Greg’s ear, Mycroft pulled him close for another nuzzle, and they would have gotten lost in kisses, except that both of their stomachs chose that moment to growl demandingly. Laughing, they broke apart and turned to their food, trading fond glances and letting their toes tangle under the table. Mycroft hummed appreciatively as he took his first bite. “Delicious,” he declared.

Greg may actually have uttered “tosh” but he wasn’t sure, as he was entirely too focused on the shine of butter on Mycroft’s lips. With a little growl, he leaned in and kissed him, tasting butter and love. Mycroft gasped softly, and swallowed hastily, so he could kiss him back. “This is ridiculous,” Greg murmured a short while later, “We’re going to starve to death at this rate.”

“Worth it,” Myc countered, but sat back, smiling. He forked up a bite of eggs and fed them to Greg, “Love may sustain us, but fuel of a more practical sort might not come amiss.”

“Smart man,” Greg complimented, helpless to keep from giving him another kiss. Between bites they kissed, fingers entwined, not speaking much, but unable to look away from one another’s eyes. Slurping up the last of his smoothie, Greg stood, stretching, “Lemme clean this up and I’ll have a quick shower. Then--”

“I beg your pardon,” Mycroft interrupted, taking the plates from Greg’s hands, “You cooked. I shall clean.” He made a little shooing motion, “Go shower.”

Greg’s objections were soundly ignored, so he gave Myc’s waist a squeeze from behind, stretching up on his toes to press a little kiss to the vulnerable back of his elegant neck. “You win the argument this time, Myc. Be back in a jiff.”

“Oh,” Mycroft called, as Greg turned away, “I almost forgot, I found this in the towel you gave me.” He dried his hands on the kitchen towel and fished in his shirt pocket, pulling out a familiar, slightly dog-eared, gilt-edged card. “Rather a peculiar thing to keep in with your linens, my love.”

Greg’s heart sped up at the sight of it, his breath coming short. “What…” he whispered, taking it with shaking fingers. “How…?”

Mycroft was regarding him with concern, “Greg, is everything alright?”

Sitting heavily, Greg gazed at the card, eyes stinging, before he looked up at Mycroft’s beloved face through eyes that swam with happy tears. “Sit down, Myc,” he said hoarsely, “I’ve got a story to tell you.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


_ Epilogue _

The alarm on Mycroft’s mobile sounded, and he moaned, reaching out blindly to fumble it off. “I hope I hit dismiss that time, not snooze,” he mumbled, rolling back into Greg’s arms. His boyfriend resumed kissing him sweetly, his tongue stroking softly at Mycroft’s lower lip. Mycroft shivered, toes curling in happiness. After a year-and-then-some of cohabitation, he had yet to get tired of cuddling, lazy mornings in bed, morning-breath kisses...any of the things he might have expected he’d have quickly become bored by. They had a flourishing sex life, well able to rival his youth, but it wasn’t just his libido which had awoken after all these years, it was his heart.

“Mmm,” Greg hummed, smiling helplessly as Mycroft took little sipping kisses from his willing lips. “I know we should get up...but don’t wanna.”

“Me either,” Mycroft agreed breathlessly, sliding a sly leg between Greg’s thighs and letting his hand drift down his boyfriend’s sinfully yummy chest and tummy. “Do you think they’ll forgive us for being late?”

“Think they’re used to it at this point,” Greg laughed, palms caressing Mycroft’s back as they glided down towards his bum. “Not sure we’ve been on time to a single gathering.”

“It’s your fault,” Mycroft pouted, rubbing his nose on Greg’s, pulling back with regret. “You’re too delicious.”

“Oh-ho, delicious, am I?” Greg grinned at him, giving Mycroft’s sensitive sides a tickle. Mycroft squealed with a complete lack of dignity, and glared at Greg, who grinned back, unrepentant. “Wanna taste, darlin’?”

“Actually, yes,” Mycroft said, swiftly abandoning his irritation and diving under the covers. He laughed happily at Greg’s breathless laughter, trailing kisses down his treasure trail. “Don’t worry, love, I’ll make this quick.”

“Don’t you dare,” Greg gasped, plunging his fingers into Mycroft’s hair, “Hm...darlin’ you take your time. Can’t rush...ah!...an artist!”

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Mycroft  _ didn’t _ rush, but when they rose from bed at last they found to their pleasure that they in fact had time to spare. But they were still running late, for all that. In all fairness, they  _ did  _ have to feed Dumpling, their fuzzy and beloved Munchkin cat, and empty the bins before they left. Love, he was finding, took many forms and he was delighting in expressing them all. Even when one of them involved cat poo.

Mycroft, washing his hands after doing so, cast a fond glance at the fortune teller’s card on the fridge, held in place with the magnet which was a souvenir from their first holiday together. The card hadn’t moved since the day they’d first put it there--it wasn’t just the magnet. Greg and Mycroft knew that they’d found their happily-ever-after, their soulmate. The card would remain there, fixed in place by fate.

“Here now,” Greg objected, scrubbing his damp head with a towel as he came out of the shower, finding the bins emptied, the litter box cleaned, and Mycroft dressing, “I was going to take care of that.”

“Too late,” Mycroft said pertly, following a water droplet down Greg’s delicious skin with his lips, humming hungrily. “I...took...care of...it…”

“Myc,” Greg moaned, dropping the towel, hands reaching for him, “Seriously, love, we’re so late…”

* * *

  
  
  
  


They  _ were _ late.  _ No one _ was surprised. 

Smoothly attempting to ignore Frank’s amused smirk, Mycroft took the wind out of the other man’s sails by gliding up to him, giving him a hug and whispering in his ear, “Anthea’s coming.”

He could  _ feel _ the resulting blush. Smirking his own smirk, Mycroft leaned back and clapped Frank on the shoulder, “Perhaps today will be the day, eh?”

“For what?” Frank bluffed, but let it go when Mycroft simply smiled and moved to hug Daisy and offer to help Pav with the barbeque. Between them they’d quite expanded their vegetarian repertoire. 

“The man is in serious denial,” Pav murmured, grinning as he arranged veg kebabs on the grill. “He continues to say ‘we’re just friends!’ as if any of us believed him--even the babies can see it.”

Mycroft grinned, “We all proceed at our own pace, eh?” He certainly had, and look how it had turned out. But then, there was only one Greg Lestrade. Frank was an excellent fellow, but sadly he would never be Greg. Not that Anthea seemed inclined to mind at all.

Happily Anthea and he had remained in contact despite their careers diverging. In the intervening time since quitting Whitehall, Mycroft had found himself at loose ends for the first time in decades. No parents to placate, no brother to nanny, no country to oversee from the shadows. Following a series of panic attacks and a good deal of existential dread, which was putting it mildly, Greg had succeeded in gently bullying him into seeing a therapist. Mycroft was unused to sharing his problems, and it had been extremely rocky going for a while. 

With Katherine’s help, however, he was now able to have a civil conversation with Sherlock, and manage his days without the demands of work. She’d urged him to try journaling, but it had never worked for him; however, he had ended up doodling little erotic romances in his notebook. When he showed them to Greg, thinking it might amuse him, Greg had been excited and enthusiastic about how ‘lovely and powerful’ they were. With Greg’s help, Mycroft had set up a blog and was now a rather popular author of historical gay romances. It wasn’t a career--although several of his more ardent admirers insisted it should be--but it gave him a sense of purpose, fulfillment and enjoyment that he couldn’t deny he loved.

Given his inherited and earned wealth left him independent, Mycroft had hesitated to find employment of any sort. A deeply ingrained sense of duty had left him feeling obligated to ‘be of use’ but the thought of returning to any sort of career had also left him queasy and irritable. Offers had come in from several governments and private firms, as well as suggestions that he should set himself up as a consultant. The idea of returning to a shadowy life and irregular hours hadn’t appealed, and with Greg’s blessing, Mycroft had decided to focus on the things he was finding time for: cookery classes, running in the park, languid Sunday mornings with his boyfriend, writing, exploring the city he’d lived in for twenty years yet never really come to know. Getting to know his family.

His  _ found _ family, not his blood relatives. Aside from a very stiff and mostly silent meeting with his parents and brother at Sherrinford on Christmas day, Mycroft hadn’t seen Mummy and Father in months. He was guilty over how much of a relief it was not to feel obligated to endure their calls and visits, and even though he still struggled with the cutting words they had leveled at him, he was almost unbearably happy not to be obligated. Instead he had Greg, and Anthea, Frank, Pav, Daisy and all the little Singhs.

“Uncle Myc!” Fazil crowed, seeing him, and put up his chubby arms demandingly. Mycroft stopped and lifted the boy onto his hip, heart warming at the enthusiasm and love the child displayed. He accepted sticky kisses and listened attentively to the outpouring of (mostly) intelligible babble. At four, Fazil was a whirlwind of energy and enthusiasm, tiny passions and big dreams. It made Mycroft’s heart ache at how much he’d come to care for this child--for all of them--and how deeply they all cared for him in turn. “Is Rosie coming today? You said she would!”

“He said  _ maybe,” _ Daisy chided, passing by with an armload of covered dishes, “Maybe Rosie has other plans today.”

Fazil pouted, huge brown eyes swimming with impending tears, “But I want to meet her!”

“Fazi,” Daisy began.

“Fazil,” Mycroft distracted him with a sleight of hand which had delighted Sherlock when he was small. “See this stone?” He displayed the small, roughly faceted crystal with a little razzle-dazzle, closed his fist, crossed his hands in front of one another and then opened them, palms out, to display the crystal vanished. Fazil’s mouth drew into a tiny  _ o  _ and he squealed in excitement. Mycroft hid a wince, smiling, “See if you can find it. It’s in the yard!” he thought to warn, lest the small boy attempt escape.

“Bless you,” Daisy laughed, having put down her dishes and coming to stand next to him. She looped a companionable arm through his, laid her head on his bicep. “Did you bring those cookies and cream brownies?”

“I did. A double batch.” Well, minus one brownie. He’d eaten one off of Greg’s abs the night prior, as a matter of fact.

“I hate you.”

He laughed, “I can hide them from you, if you wish.”

She slapped his side lightly, face fond, “Don’t you dare!”

“My waistline rues the day I learned the recipe,” Mycroft said with a sigh, an unconscious hand going to his middle. He stopped, remembered Katherine’s words. Remembered Greg’s unconditional love and his gentle chiding at Mycroft’s self-loathing. “Not that a treat does one any harm.”

She gave his arm a little squeeze, “You deserve all the treats in the world, Myc.” She patted his back and headed toward the house.

His eyes sought out and found Greg, being besieged by their multitude of nieces and nephews. No doubt he would be dirty, grass-stained and exhausted by the time they returned home. Mycroft’s heart strained with love for him. Greg, feeling his gaze, looked up with a bright smile, eyes shining.  _ I love you, _ he mouthed, gaze brilliant. His look was brighter still when Mycroft, smiling all the while, mouthed back,  _ I love you too. _

“Ugh, sentiment,” a familiar voice drawled, and Mycroft stiffened slightly, before breathing in a grounding breath and turning to find Sherlock--minus the Belstaff--regarding him from a few steps away. He wore his goddaughter on one hip like a very comfortable accessory, although the child’s father was nowhere to be seen.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft greeted, wanting to hug him but constrained by the distance between them. Sherlock seemed to bear him no ill will, in fact had been far kinder than Mycroft reckoned he deserved, but theirs was not an easy relationship. “Miss Rosie.”

She ducked her head shyly, tucking her curls close to Sherlock’s. He gave her an absent-minded and entirely fond kiss, causing Mycroft’s heart to swell with the sight of his brother’s easy affection.

“Dr Watson not with you?”

“He had to work,” Sherlock said, eyes surveying the party. Despite his slightly disparaging words upon first greeting, he didn’t seem inclined to rudeness. He was even smiling slightly. “If he’s able, he’ll drop by once his shift is over.”

“I hope he can make it,” Mycroft said sincerely. “My only birthday wish is to have my family here.”

Sherlock looked at him sharply, eyes scanning him, “I hope you didn’t invite  _ them,”  _ he said with slight emphasis.

“Lord no,” Mycroft blurted before he thought better of it. He winced. Sherlock had seemingly grown closer to their parents in the wake of revelations about their past, and he, no matter his own hurt feelings, didn’t wish to cut his brother off from that.

“Thank god,” Sherlock said easily, smiling faintly. He met Mycroft’s eyes, almost looking kind. “I’ve tried to--well. They are what they are.”

“Perhaps in time…” Mycroft began tentatively.

“What?” Sherlock asked, letting an impatient Rosie slide down his side to stand next to him, clinging to the otherwise impeccable line of his trousers. 

“I hope they aren’t extending their hatred of me towards you.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and Mycroft braced himself. “You...you think that I am seeking  _ their _ love and approval?”

Mycroft opened his mouth but wasn’t sure how to answer.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said, sounding serious, and almost gentle, “I’ve given up arguing with them to unbend and reach out to you.” His eyes were softer than Mycroft could recall seeing them in decades. “You owe them no apology--you’ve made those and been kicked in the teeth for it.” Mycroft winced and Sherlock seemed genuinely regretful. “Sorry,” he muttered, sounding frustrated. He plunged a hand through his curls, “I’m--even with Ella, and John, I’m finding it hard not to sound like an arse.” He gave a tiny shrug, “Habit.”

“You’re not an arsehole,” Mycroft said automatically. He was surprised to find it true. The stinging animosity and air of challenge that had existed between them for so many years seemed to have vanished. “What are you trying to say?”

Sherlock, eyes on Rosie, who had staggered a few hesitant steps away, sighed, “I’m sorry for my part in making you feel like you aren’t a part of this family,” he said at last. His face was warm when he looked at Mycroft, “We aren’t much of one, but I’d like us to try, for Rosie’s sake, if not for mine.”

“I...I’d like that,” Mycroft said, throat tight around unshed tears. Lord, this was a celebration. He needn’t weep all over. He cleared his throat, “It would be very much for yours as well, Sherlock.” When his brother looked at him, he managed a smile, “I do love you, little brother.”

“Sentiment,” Sherlock said again, but he was smiling.

“It is damnably inconvenient at times,” Mycroft agreed, discreetly wiping his eyes. He was relieved to see Greg joining them. Automatically his arm went out, wound around Greg’s waist, and they exchanged a kiss before he thought of his brother. Finding Sherlock watching them curiously, he smiled tentatively, and was glad to see Sherlock smile back. It would take work, but he thought they might be alright.

  
  
  
  


* * *

Anthea, looking cool as a dream in a pale green linen summer frock, arrived a short time later, carrying a beautiful double-stemmed blue orchid in a hand-cast pot, and a small wrapped gift. She looked relaxed, happy, and Mycroft was glad to see that she’d shed some of her mysterious air after years of working at Whitehall. The change had been good for her too.

The offers for her skills had been countless, even considering the letter which she’d used to eviscerate all and sundry at Whitehall. While she might have used the opportunity as a stepping stone to a more illustrious career in politics, she’d instead taken her time, confessing to Mycroft that she wasn’t entirely certain what she wanted to do next. Following a six month sabbatical, she’d enrolled in university, claiming she wanted a chance to find out what would drive her future. She was an enthusiastic cheerleader of his stories, and Mycroft had quite come to depend on her valuable feedback. He had no concerns for Anthea--anything she set her mind to he knew she would embrace with passion and skill.

The only thing she seemed hesitant about was her feelings for Frank. Mycroft didn’t think, as Greg had shared that Frank seemed to worry, that it had anything to do with the fifteen year age difference. He suspected that she was taking her time, well aware that Frank had suffered and was shy of giving his heart away. While he hoped his friends, about whom he cared so much, would find happiness, Mycroft also understood her desire to build a friendship first. 

It was, he thought fondly, squeezing Greg’s hand as they stood around the birthday cake shining with candles, his family singing lustily, a very good way to begin things.

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
